Cerulean Blue
by Anna Fugazzi
Summary: When Potions Professor Draco Malfoy has an accident that costs him the last four years of his memory, Harry Potter, with the grudging assistance of Severus Snape's portrait, is the only one who can help him. Co-written with scrtkpr.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This fic was written for winnet, as a pinch-hit for Beltane 2008. Her request: _Flangst, UST, happy endings, snarky Slytherins, characters being in character. Threesome! I would really, really like to get a H/D/S threesome! That being said, I want to let you be as creative as you can be, so go with whatever works for you at the time. If you want a prompt, how about my favorite general themes: Friends turn lovers, working together to get out of a trap or solve a mystery, and memory/magic loss._

Co-written with scrtkpr, the brains behind the entire plot. I just showed up to write some of the scenes :)

**ooo000ooo**

"Draco! Will you stop being an arse and..." Harry took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he began again, closing his eyes and pressing down on the spot that had begun to throb in the middle of his forehead. "I understand this must be fright--erm, disorienting. But I'm not asking you to do anything dangerous. All I am asking is that you come into this room."

"Not a chance, Potter." Draco crossed his arms, the gesture more defensive than stubborn. "I don't believe a word you've said."

"You don't believe..." Harry trailed off, shaking his head. It was strange, seeing _that_ expression on _this_ Draco's face. "Just—look at me. How do you explain this?"

"You could have given yourself an aging potion."

"Do you think I gave you one too?"

Draco looked down at himself, then back up at Harry in confusion. "You might have," he finally said. "I wouldn't put it past you." But the uncertainty was clear in his voice.

"Look." Harry kept his voice calm, but consciously stopped himself from showing too much friendliness or sympathy. "Snape's portrait is in this room. I'm going to see if he can help us." He shook his head again. "Help _you."_

"Why would his portrait be at Hogwarts?" Draco said suspiciously. "Your side won. As if they'd keep a Death Eater's portrait here."

"They did. They offered him a place in the Heroes Hall."

"Then why are we in the dungeons? Even if it had been built already, the Heroes' Hall would be on the first floor."

"It _is_ on the first floor. Snape's portrait didn't get along with the others in the Hall. He asked to be moved down here to the dungeons." And nobody was sorry to see him go, he didn't say out loud.

Draco's eyebrows went down, and Harry knew he'd finally managed to say something right. Possibly Draco was remembering that Snape never had been the most sociable of men.

"Will you please just come in here?" Harry asked.

"Where's my family?"

Harry had to bite back a completely inappropriate and unexpected smile. He hadn't expected that question, but he should have. And had Draco really been this easy to read four years ago? "I haven't got a clue." Damn, Draco's eyes when he said that. He reached out to place a comforting hand on Draco's shoulder, but Draco flinched away. "The sooner we get you sorted out, the sooner you'll remember. I'm sure they're fine. You don't need to worry."

"I'm not worried."

What an admirable attempt at cool nonchalance--trying to gloss over the fact that he'd just given in to the need to ask for his Mummy. "I don't know what you think I'm going to do to you, but please, let me just take you inside. Look, you've got your wand--" Harry stopped himself on the verge of offering Draco his own wand, as a gesture of non-hostility. This wasn't the Draco that Harry knew. This was a younger, sneakier, and less trusting version of his colleague and...yes, friend. If he gave this Draco his own wand, Draco would most probably hex him with it.

Draco scowled at him, and Harry could sense his uncertainty, his intense suspicion. Draco raised his wand and slowly approached the door, eyes glued to Harry's, then took a deep breath as Harry opened it.

They stepped into the small, dank room, and Draco stopped in his tracks.

Harry followed his gaze and couldn't blame him. Snape's portrait took some getting used to, he supposed, for anybody who'd known the man well or spent much time with him. It wasn't a bad portrait, he thought as Draco approached it. It was just...not quite what one would expect. The painter hadn't been unrealistic, but he'd painted Snape on a good day, in a good light. The golden glow of the potion before him, and the low lights of the candles made his sallow skin look almost warm. The shine in his hair seemed more to do with the oils it was painted in than with greasiness, and his nose somehow looked strong and not just hooked.

The background was different from what one might expect too. If Harry were to imagine a background for Snape, he would think of something...not unlike this room, he realized—something in the dungeons, dimly lit, sparsely furnished. The setting of this portrait was a potions room, but there was no stone surrounding him, no vaguely greenish dim lights. It looked more like a Slughorn potions lab; gleaming surfaces, small details here and there to make it look comfortable and homey. You could almost smell the Amortentia in the air, though what Snape would smell in Amortentia, Harry had no desire to find out or even think about. His brain skittered frantically away from the idea of what scent his mother might have worn.

Portrait Snape raised his eyebrows at Draco. "Yes?"

Draco gaped at him, then at Harry. "He's here!"

Harry nodded, amused at the shocked expression on Draco's face and the bewildered one on Snape's.

"Where else should I be?" Snape asked.

"You... he told me they'd done a portrait of you, but--"

"Let me explain," Harry cut him off, then turned to Snape. "Draco's done something. I have no idea what. He was brewing a potion, and it's somehow taken away his memory. He's lost the last four years. As far as he's concerned, he's eighteen and the war has only been over for two months. I need you to help me reverse whatever it is that he did."

"Why would you want to help me, Scarhead?" sneered Draco. Harry suppressed an eyeroll with great difficulty.

"Because we're colleagues, and friends," he said patiently.

Snape did roll his eyes at that one. "Potter, is there a reason why you brought him to me, instead of Madam Pomfrey?"

Harry pressed his lips together; damn, but Snape had a knack for pissing him off, even post mortem. "I'm not sure this is anything he'd want Madam Pomfrey involved with."

"Because..."

"Because. I think he might have been trying to brew a potion for..." He glanced at Draco again, not wanting to break his confidence, then felt a stab of impatience at himself. Break his confidence? How? By telling _Snape's portrait_ what he'd been working on? "I'm fairly sure he was trying to brew that potion for his mother," he said, and Snape's gaze went from condescending and impatient to concerned in an instant.

_"What?"_ Draco was staring at him, baffled. "You think I was brewing a potion for my mother? Why?"

"Your mother isn't doing well," Harry said. "As I said, I don't know where she is, aside from travelling abroad. You haven't told me that much--"

"As if I would tell you anything--"

"--but you have told me that you're worried about her, and you've been thinking of brewing a potion for her."

Draco stared at Harry, wearing the same disbelieving expression that had been on his face ever since the word "friends" had crossed Harry's lips.

Harry glanced at Snape, and it felt distinctly bizarre to share an understanding gaze with him. "Professor..."

Snape nodded and turned to Draco. "Potter is correct. Your mother hasn't been doing well," he said in what was--for Snape--a surprisingly gentle voice. "She and your father have had... problems. She's been nervous and depressed, and has been suffering from nightmares of the time that the Dark Lord spent at your home."

Draco scowled at him. "If that's the best story you can come up with," he sneered, "you might want to try again." Harry hid a smile at the way Snape's eyebrows approached his hairline at the belligerent tone Draco was taking with him. "My mother's hardly a delicate flower. She'd be the last one in our family to--" He suddenly cut himself off, eyes darting between Snape and Harry, his cheeks taking on a rosy glow.

"You stopped having nightmares within a year or two after the war," Harry told him.

Draco's eyes widened.

"Your mother _is_ strong," said Snape. "Very much so. You know that." Snape cleared his throat. "What you are forgetting," he continued in a brisker voice, "is that even the strongest people can find their strength fails them eventually. Your mother came very close to losing all that was important to her. She held your family together for four years, helped you get where you are today, but your absence this year has not been easy for her." He turned to Harry. "We can't assume we know for certain what potion he was brewing. Were there are any hyssop seeds, or verbena, in his lab? I don't suppose you thought to bring anything with you." Harry shook his head, and Snape rolled his eyes. "How did you find him?"

"I was going in to talk to him about the Quidditch practice we were running tonight," Harry said, ignoring Draco, whose mouth was hanging open and who clearly could not decide what to comment on first. "There was steam all over the room--"

"What did it smell like?"

"Erm..."

"Did it smell like something sweet, like honey?"

"Yeah, I... I think so." He paused, waiting for more questions, and eventually Snape gave an impatient huff.

"Do go on."

"He was coughing, and confused. I helped him up, and--well, I thought maybe, you know, it was the potion he'd been talking about, but he was too confused to understand me when I asked so I just decided to bring him to you. He started to wake up a bit on our way here, and by the time we reached the hallway he was--well, he was like this." Harry made a wave at Draco, whose expression and body language were still screaming suspicion and defensiveness.

Snape was gazing at Draco very seriously, mind obviously running along at top speed. "How do you feel, Draco?"

Draco frowned at them both. "This... doesn't make any sense. Why would I talk to _him_? And why would he not want to take me to Madam Pomfrey, why--"

"Why you would talk to him is a mystery to me as well, I assure you," said Snape, his voice pained, "but the fact is that you did. As to why he would hesitate to take you to Madam Pomfrey, that is less mysterious. The potion you were attempting to brew almost certainly contained illegal ingredients."

"Why would I--" Draco began, before cutting himself off and glancing at Harry.

Ignoring Draco's obvious desire for discretion, Snape continued. "Your mother's health has deteriorated in recent months as her abuse--yes, abuse--of Dreamless Sleep potions has taken its toll. You discovered a potion that--if it were brewed _correctly_--would minimize or entirely negate the ill effects by preventing only certain dreams and allowing her to sleep normally at night. Some of the ingredients, unfortunately, are by their nature sensitive and dangerous, and require a great deal of legal oversight." Snape paused. "Knowing that you would be unlikely to receive it, you decided to proceed without Ministry approval. You knew what would happen if you were discovered; you would almost certainly lose your position here, and there would be even more scandal attached to your family." He glanced at Harry. "For reasons known only to yourself, you confided this to Potter. Who, for reasons known only to himself, apparently wishes to help you."

Harry looked away from Snape's keen gaze.

"I don't believe a word of this," said Draco.

"You would be no proper Slytherin if you did," said Snape, then turned to Harry. "Gryffindors, on the other hand, are famous for jumping to conclusions without bothering to gather or consider evidence."

Harry bristled. "I was more concerned with getting him here than picking up after him. I thought..."

"You thought that if you brought him to me, I would be able to help you counteract the effect of a potion, based on nothing but your eloquent narrative and Draco's appearance." He sighed. "Quite a compliment to my talents. Or, more likely, a demonstration of the tactical brilliance that brought you fame and success at such a young age."

Snape took a deep breath. "Potter, go to Draco's workroom and gather up any ingredients you see lying around. Also bring me his cauldron--you'll want to stop the flames under it, as I'm sure it didn't occur to you to do so--and bring a flask of the air near the cauldron. The spell to gather it is _Vaporo Encapsulo._ If there are any written notes in sight, bring them as well."

Harry moved to follow the directions, still seething at Snape's condescending tone, then paused. "What about Draco?"

"Draco can stay here. If he's as addled as you seem to think he is, he'll hardly miss your company, will he?"

"I'm not addled," said Draco. "And I'm not going to take any 'antidotes' the two of you try to foist on me without a better explanation for...for all of this. Can you give me even one good reason I should trust either of you?"

"I can give you several," said Snape. "We should have time for a lengthy discussion. Particularly since Potter seems determined to loiter in the doorway rather than gather information as I asked him to do."

Harry cleared his throat and hurried from the room.

**ooo000ooo**

"So I pick the hellebore leaves, then?" asked Harry. "Not the flowers?"

"Not like that," said Snape, with the air of a man who is only restraining the urge to throttle because the alternative is looking like an idiot trying to scramble out of his portrait. "Pick the leaves slowly and carefully, unless you'd like to ensure Draco only gets back memories involving indigestion."

Harry bit his tongue and slowed down the leaf-picking. Only half an hour in, Snape's attitude was already getting tiresome. And all they'd done so far was identify the ingredients Harry had brought back from Draco's lab and begin gathering the necessary ingredients for the cure.

"And Mother?" Draco asked, leaning against the opposite table and determinedly ignoring Harry. "Other than her nightmares and the side-effects from the potion, she's in good health?"

"She is, yes," said Snape.

Draco glanced at Harry guardedly.

"Don't worry, I know most of this already," said Harry, plucking the hellebore leaves carefully.

"What?" Draco frowned.

"You told both of us about your mother."

Draco scowled and pointedly turned away again. "So you've claimed." But after a slight pause, he continued. "Why is she travelling?" he asked Snape.

"Because she does not wish her difficulties to become common--STOP that!"

_"What?"_ said Harry.

"Use the _silver_ knife to crush the leaves, Potter. Silver is a greyish metal, and gold is yellowish," he said slowly and clearly. "I realize it's confusing, but we will be far more likely to succeed if you can keep such fine distinctions straight."

Harry allowed himself a few seconds of blissful contemplation of what Snape would look like if Harry set his portrait on fire.

"And don't crush _those_ leaves," said Snape. "That is _Helleborus lividus._ You are supposed to be using _Helleborus foetidus."_

"What's the difference?"

"If you didn't notice a pungent odor when you crushed the leaves, you are working with _lividus._ The use of the word _foetidus_ no doubt means absolutely nothing to you, but if you'd like to ask any random first-year Potions student, they will tell you that it means malodorous."

Harry put the hellebore down. "Why don't I go to Poppy or Pomona, and ask them?"

"They'll want to know what you're doing with hellebore," Draco said scornfully.

"I figured that part, thanks--" Harry began.

"--as it's hardly a secret that you're a complete incompetent when it comes to Potions."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're forgetting that my incompetence at Potions isn't quite as absolute as it was before sixth year." He gave Snape a grim smile. "Thanks to you."

Snape's lips compressed into a thin line. "How considerate of you to bring that up. What a clever way of making our working relationship that much more pleasant."

"As clever as calling me an incompetent with every other breath?"

"Why don't _I_ just do this?" said Draco, stepping closer and reaching for the hellebore.

"No," said Harry and Snape at the same time.

"You've already been in one potions accident today, Draco," said Harry. "Just sit down."

"I know at least as much as you!"

"Even when you are _not_ suffering from memory loss, there are a great many things about potions you remain ignorant of," said Snape.

Draco blinked at Snape's tone. "I'm a Potions professor, aren't I? Obviously I must know something."

"And you're here being treated for a potions accident," said Harry impatiently, "because you obviously didn't know as much as you thought you did." He picked a single leaf, gave it a sniff, then very pointedly picked up the silver knife. "Like this?"

"If you crush the leaves like that, Draco will likely begin to remember things that have never happened," said Snape. "Dolt," he muttered under his breath.

"So I'll ask again," said Harry, putting down his knife. "Would you rather I go to Poppy with this?"

"Maybe we should," Draco said to Snape. "Potter _is_ a complete incompetent. He only succeeded in convincing Slughorn otherwise because he had your book to cheat with." He glared at Harry, with a 'so there' expression on his face.

Harry suppressed a smile. "You told me that you knew about me using Snape's Potions book several months ago," he said, and it was a pleasure watching Draco's face fall. "Besides, as I've got the man himself here, and we all know I can follow his directions, that should be enough, right? Unless he wants to keep treating me like a bloody house-elf."

"I'd rather go to Pomfrey anyway," said Draco angrily.

Harry blew the hair off his forehead. "Don't be stupid."

"Don't call me stupid!"

"He's right," Snape said, looking most put out at those words.

Draco stared at him in shocked indignation, and Snape rolled his eyes. "Not about being stupid--about going to Pomfrey. Your job depends on Potter's discretion and intelligence. A dismal prospect for anyone."

"Almost as dismal as having to work with the two of you. I'm doing you a _favor_," Harry reminded Draco. "I seem to recall having done quite a few for you over the years. I don't have to be doing this, and I won't continue if you two keep pissing me off."

Snape was looking at him with narrowed eyes, and it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Draco, though... Draco was an open book. Resentment, distrust, anger, a bit of fear... it was all laid out clearly, and Harry couldn't understand how he could have ever thought that teenage Draco was anything resembling self-possessed.

Suddenly he felt ashamed of himself. Bringing up the fact that he'd helped Draco, throwing it in his face. Threatening to leave him high and dry, which he had no intention of doing. It was as though all the progress he and Draco had made over the last year had been wiped away with just a few sneering prods.

He was better than this. Draco might be a scared eighteen-year-old, but Harry certainly wasn't, and he had no business letting himself be irritated into this kind of behavior.

He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "All right. Now. Can we try to do this civilly? Pretend we're all grown-ups?"

Silence was as good as consent. Once again, he began picking leaves.

Glancing over, Harry was amused to see that Draco had moved closer to the mirror at the end of the room and was surreptitiously examining his older body. Draco frowned, and Harry wondered what he was thinking. That body wasn't anything to be disappointed about.

"Pass inspection?"

Draco jerked in surprise, then amused Harry further by attempting to cover the movement in a quick smoothing of his robes and hair.

"You may not have standards, Potter, but that's no reason for the rest of us to follow suit."

"That's all right. If my body was suddenly four years older, I'd be curious too."

Draco pinched his lips together and seemed for a moment to consider outraged denial, before abandoning the idea and turning to examine himself more openly.

"I'm still taller than you," he finally said.

"Congratulations."

Draco turned away from the mirror, and Harry felt himself flush as Draco's eyes trailed over his body. "You don't look much different, really."

"Is that a surprise?"

"You never know. Some people change so much in four years you can hardly recognize them."

"Yeah, like Dudley." Draco gave him a blank stare. "Oh. You don't remember about Dudley. Right."

"Who's Dudley?" Draco asked.

"Potter's loutish Muggle cousin, Dudley Dursley," said Snape. "With whom he actually maintains an irregular and no doubt thoroughly uninteresting and poorly spelled correspondence."

Harry and Draco gaped at him.

"How do you know that?" Draco asked.

"Because you told me," Snape said.

Harry and Draco exchanged a bewildered glance. "Why would I have talked to you about his cousin?"

"No idea," said Snape dryly. "Potter. Are you planning on asking the potion ingredients to prepare themselves?"

Harry turned back to his task, thinking about Dudley as he worked. He and Draco really had been similar in some ways. Both spoiled brats, both bullies.

Which was why he hadn't been friends with Draco in school, Harry reminded himself. He'd wondered a few times, after they'd started working together and building what had really felt like a genuine camaraderie, how he could have ever loathed Draco as much as he had. It wasn't so hard to remember today.

This Draco, though, was different. An intermediate version, of sorts--still lacking in maturity, but not quite so certain in his opinions as he liked to pretend he was. Harry really hadn't interacted with Draco at all in the months following the war. He wouldn't pretend he would miss this Draco, as he already did his colleague, but he had to admit it was... interesting... getting to meet him.

A moment later, Snape spoke again. "You said that you and Draco are expected to manage a Quidditch practice tonight. Have you made alternative arrangements?"

Harry nodded, and began yet another attempt to crush a leaf with the silver knife. "Ran into Neville. He's going to--"

"Longbottom? What's he doing back here?"

"He never left," Harry said. "He runs the greenhouses and helps teach Herbology. Should be teaching it full-time in about two years."

Draco's mouth fell slightly open.

"Pomona was injured in the war," Snape told him. "Longbottom has been here ever since. Use the flat of the blade to apply _uniform_ pressure."

Harry nodded. "Anyway, I asked him to cancel Quidditch practice for me. Told him I was going to be helping Draco clean up after a Potions accident, but I made it sound like a spill. The lab is closed, by the way, and nobody's going to come looking for us."

"You told him you were helping me? And he believed that?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah, he did. Unlike you, he still has memories of the last few years. We're friends, I told you."

Draco appeared somewhere between horrified and fascinated by the idea. "What, so we mark essays together, head over to the Leaky Cauldron for a pint..."

"You prefer the Hog's Head," said Harry, deadpan.

"What?!"

Harry ignored him as Snape made an impatient noise. "It's the Three Broomsticks, as a matter of fact, and the two of you are there about once a week."

Draco frowned darkly at this mention of the Three Broomsticks, and Harry realized what Draco's problem must be. Apparently the same realization had occurred to Snape.

"Madam Rosmerta no longer works there. Perhaps I should bring you up to speed, as it will undoubtedly never occur to Potter to do anything but watch you flail about with no idea of what's going on."

"He'll remember once he's been cured--"

"Potter, please attempt to focus on the task at hand. We're relying on your skill at following simple instructions," said Snape heavily. "I've no idea why, but I am less than fully optimistic." He turned to Draco. "Potter has been gracing us with his presence for two very long years. You started teaching here in September. You began socializing with Potter by early November. It is now May. Your Potions classes are going well, with the exception of your seventh-year class, which is infested with Ravenclaws who regularly attempt to push back the boundaries of Potions knowledge and more often than not end up almost blowing up the lab. Potter's excuse for your absence from Quidditch is in fact the most believable of all the scores of pathetic excuses I have been fortunate enough to hear from him since he first arrived at Hogwarts."

"Right, fine, that's lovely," said Draco. "Potter and I are...are best mates. We _love_ each other. I'm sure his friendship fills up the empty spaces in my life and gives my existence meaning. Now that we've established that, can we just get back to work?"

"Excellent idea," said Snape.

_We love each other._

All right, now _that_ was stupid, that little thrill he'd just felt, hearing Draco say those words. Even knowing full well they were being spoken by a petulant, sarcastic teenager.

Inwardly shuddering at what Snape--or Draco--would say if they knew, Harry pushed down the inappropriate response and continued with his task. And tried not to notice how Draco made a point of seating himself as far away from Harry as he possibly could. Or how Draco watched him work, an odd expression on his face, whenever he thought Harry wasn't looking.

**ooo000ooo**

"You're trying to kill me," Draco moaned. "I knew it."

Harry winced in sympathy as Draco finally sat back from the basin. That was more spewing than he'd seen since the week he'd briefly been a regular at the Hog's Head, after he and Ginny had split up. Mesmerizing, too. Like a train wreck that you just couldn't look away from--a multicolored, projectile train wreck, with that uniquely acidic smell.

"You didn't stir it quickly enough," Snape was saying.

"I stirred it as fast as I could. My arm nearly fell off, the bloody spoon was too heavy--"

Draco grimaced and leaned forward again. "The _spoon_ was too heavy?" he muttered into the basin. "That's the most bloody ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my life."

This was patently unfair--the spoon Snape had insisted Harry use had been unnaturally heavy--but when Harry opened his mouth to retort, Draco retched again, and Harry couldn't bring himself to argue the point. "It was heavy," he said again to Snape.

Snape's lip curled. "It's a poor craftsman who blames his tools."

"Well since you're the one giving instructions here, I would say that makes me your tool, doesn't it? In which case, who's the poor craftsman here?"

Draco wiped his mouth, disgusted, and Harry vanished the contents of the basin and cast a discreet air freshening charm. Snape had left off glaring and was now staring at the wall across from his portrait, brow furrowed.

"So should we...should we try again?"

"Not a chance," said Draco weakly.

Harry felt another twinge of sympathy but kept his attention on Snape, who was frowning. "Snape?"

"Be quiet. I'm thinking."

"Take your time," said Draco, who was staring at the basin, a miserable expression on his face. Harry extended his arm, intending to pat him on the shoulder, before remembering that a comforting gesture would not be welcomed. He pulled back at the last moment, but Draco caught the movement and looked up suspiciously. "What?"

"Nothing," said Harry, and Draco narrowed his eyes further.

"I don't want you standing so close to me," said Draco. "Go stand over there."

Harry rolled his eyes but took several steps away from Draco. "There. Happy?"

"It's not going to work," said Snape.

"What?"

"I said it is _not_ going to _work,"_ Snape repeated. He sounded angry, which was nothing new, but Harry suspected Snape was angry at himself this time, or perhaps at his limitations. "That potion was the only chance we had of purging the effects from Draco's system."

"It seemed like purging was exactly..." Harry cut himself off abruptly, suddenly glad for the distance between himself and Draco. He hadn't seen an expression that vindictive on Draco's face since sixth year. "Right, not funny." He sighed. "Look, you said I didn't stir it right..."

"It doesn't matter," Snape said tightly. "Despite your blunders, I intervened before you did anything too disastrously wrong. The potion you produced should have been...passable. It wouldn't have worked this poorly if it were going to work at all. There were two explanations for Draco's memory loss. One of them I could have done something about. The other..."

For the first time since this whole mess had begun, Harry felt a stab of real fear that this was not just a momentary inconvenience--that this could have permanent and very damaging implications. Draco appeared alarmed as well, until he noticed Harry looking at him and gave a half-hearted sneer before turning back to Snape. "What do you mean?"

"Your symptoms could have been caused by the presence of larkspur in your system. It is a risky and unpredictable ingredient--which is why its use is restricted. But if that were the cause of your symptoms, you would have regained your memory."

"Rather than lost my lunch?" Draco interjected, more than a hint of accusation in his voice.

Harry suspected it was only the seriousness of the topic at hand that prevented Snape from rolling his eyes. "It appears that you had progressed further in brewing the potion than I suspected. I'm afraid it may have acted upon your memory in ways that would be much more difficult to reverse."

"What exactly do you think the potion did to me?" Draco finally asked.

"The potion you were attempting to brew would have gone to the source of your mother's nightmares and--shut the door on them, as it were. If her mind were the manor, perhaps the drawing room and the cellar below it would have been closed off. The rest of her mind would have been left untouched. You appear to have shut the door on the last four years of your life."

"Were the last four years of my life so bad?" Draco asked. "I suppose I must be miserable, working with Potter."

"You are not," said Harry indignantly.

"You told me just two weeks ago that this year has been the happiest of your adult life," Snape said to Draco.

"Well, I can't imagine why," said Draco, glowering weakly at Harry, and Harry didn't have the heart to stay indignant.

"I would rather not speculate on that either," said Snape, casting a dark look at Harry, "or I might just lose my lunch as well. Now as I believe I have mentioned, your potion was _misbrewed._ Adding blackthorn, which would have restricted the effects of the potion to nightmares only, would have been the final step. You obviously never got that far. The memories you lost have nothing to do with the happiness or unhappiness of recent years and everything to do with the amount of time you were exposed. In another few minutes, you'd likely have forgotten everything you ever knew. As much as it pains me to say it, you are...fortunate Potter happened upon you when he did."

Harry, alarmed over what Snape had just said, ignored the grudging compliment. "You say the memories are lost. But this wasn't an Obliviate--they aren't gone entirely. We'll be able to get them back...won't we?"

"That is yet to be determined," said Snape, and Harry's stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. Snape looked at Draco accusingly. "You should have come to me in the first place. Assisting you in brewing this potion would have been _far_ easier than attempting to undo the damage now."

Draco stared at him.

"You said the door is closed," said Harry. "Can't you brew a potion that will open it?"

"You do realize there are no actual doors inside my head, don't you Potter?"

Snape and Harry both ignored him.

"The difficulty is creating a potion that will release the memories Draco is missing, and only those memories. I could perhaps brew a potion that would blast every "door" in his mind off its hinges, cause him to remember, in excruciating detail, every experience of his life. But I doubt that would be helpful. No one could function like that. If given the choice, any sane person would rather lose the ability to remember than the ability to forget."

Harry stared at Snape, thinking of all the things the man must have wanted to forget over the years. For once, Snape looked away first.

"Well, what about...Legilimency?" Harry finally suggested. "Can't we just...go in, find the right door, and open it ourselves?"

"Even assuming you could find this 'door,' Legilimency would merely allow you to look at it. Opening the door would require the ability to change memories rather than simply view them."

Harry thought about Slughorn, whose attempts to modify his own memories had been so badly botched. Of Lockhart, whose memories were gone forever. Of Hermione's parents, whose original memories had still remained, perfectly intact, beneath the false memories she had superimposed over them. Memories could be erased, and they could be hidden, but he'd never heard of a way to successfully _change_ them. He looked at Snape.

"What, you don't have a potion for that either?"

Snape opened his mouth to respond, then paused and closed it again.

"As if I would allow Potter anywhere _near_ my head," said Draco.

Snape turned and looked at Draco speculatively.

"No," said Draco, eyes widening. "No way is that happening."

**ooo000ooo**

"This is the final ingredient?"

"Yes. You have fifteen minutes to prepare it. When you add it, stir counter-clockwise."

"That's something I've never understood. _Why_ stir counter-clockwise?"

"Because counter-clockwise calls upon the magic of opposition." Snape paused. "Did you never ask yourself any of these questions while you were using my textbook?"

"You might think so, but no, actually." That had been an astonishingly civil exchange. Perhaps the two of them could work together after all.

"The Gryffindor brain. Every bit as useful as a navel on a newt." Or perhaps not. Harry pressed his lips together as Snape continued. "It is incomprehensible to me how Miss Weasley remained besotted with you for as long as she did."

"Why's that?" asked Draco from the corner, where he was poking at the suit of armor, trying to get it to move.

"Miss Weasley had, as I recall, a glimmer of intellect. Rather uncommon in her house or her family."

"And she's not with Potter anymore?" Draco smirked. "What happened? The dream didn't live up to the reality?"

Harry scowled at him. "None of your business."

"Wasn't it supposed to be the predictable end to the fairy tale? Hero gets his girl?"

Harry ignored him and went back to chopping.

"He got his girl," said Snape. "He just didn't know what to do with her once he had her. But then girls aren't what Potter dreams about these days. Are they, Potter?"

Harry slammed the knife down and glared at Snape. "How the hell do you know--"

"I'm a portrait. If you think there are any secrets kept from portraits in this castle, you're deluding yourself."

Harry stared at him. He hadn't kept his attraction to men a secret, exactly, but he hadn't wanted to advertise it either. No help for it now, though. If the portraits knew, it was only a matter of time before it ended up in the _Daily Prophet_. "I liked you much better when you were a book," he finally muttered.

"You never liked me."

"I did, actually," said Harry tightly. "I thought of you as a friend. A mentor. When you were the Prince."

Snape stared at him. Once again, Harry had no idea what the man was thinking. And wonderful, Draco was staring at him too.

Right. Because Harry had just admitted to being gay. Marvelous.

He'd never been certain of Draco's preferences, never known how the adult Draco would have responded to Harry's own preferences being confirmed so directly, and he had no idea what to expect from this teenager. But if Draco was going to have a problem with it, Harry really wasn't in the mood to deal with it.

"What?"

Draco actually appeared flustered. "Nothing. I mean..." He straightened his back. "I'd wondered why you didn't bother to answer my mother's owls. Turns out you were too busy having a sexual crisis to acknowledge someone who _saved your life_."

"Yes, and you're the expert on life debts and proper demonstrations of gratitude, is that right?"

Bright spots of pink appeared on both of Draco's cheeks, and he pressed his lips together tightly.

Harry sighed. "Look, Draco. I was _busy_ during the first weeks after the war. But I've done plenty for your mother since. Getting you this job here, for one. If you had your memory, you'd _know_ that." Of course, if Draco had his memory, they wouldn't be having this argument. They'd be laughing together over their drinks, as Draco made witty observations about the performance of the Quidditch teams, and Harry struggled not to be too obvious about watching Draco's fingers as he traced patterns in the condensation on his glass.

And he wouldn't have that Draco back, ever, unless he got this potion right. Taking a deep breath, he picked up his knife and returned to chopping roots.

Draco, however, didn't appear nearly as ready to drop the subject. "So we're friends, is that right?" Draco said, his voice taking on a derisive, mocking quality as he lingered over the word 'friends.' "Tell each other everything? Did you tell me about this? Did I know you liked men?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. Can we just drop the subject?"

"No, I don't think we can. Tell me, did you make your intentions clear when you convinced me to _socialize_ with you every week?"

"God, Malfoy, I don't have any-- We're not-- And you were the one who asked _me_ that first time." He shook his head. "You know what? We're not talking about this. In fact, let's just not talk at all."

"That," said Snape, "is the most intelligent suggestion I have ever heard you make. If I have to listen to you prattle on for another minute, my ears will begin to bleed."

"Yes, because you're not interested in what I might have to _say_, only what you might be able to learn by _spying_ on me."

"For Merlin's sake, Potter, I do have better ways to occupy my time than to lurk in the landscape in your bedroom hoping to overhear something interesting."

Harry froze. "How do you know there's a landscape in my bedroom?"

"I didn't say that _every_ portrait in this castle has better things to do. I do speak with other portraits on occasion."

Harry felt his face flushing. That painting was coming down _tonight_. And the still life in the sitting room, too. He glanced at Draco, fully expecting another mocking comment, but Draco's attention, he was relieved to see, was focused on Snape.

"Why did you ask to move out of the Heroes' Hall?" Draco asked.

Snape gave him a look of disbelief. "Do you know who's _in_ the Heroes' Hall?"

"No, but I can imagine."

There was a brief moment of silence before Snape realized that Draco was waiting for him to continue. He made an impatient gesture. "Colin Creevey flashes that ridiculous camera of his incessantly, and chatters inanely, also incessantly. Fred Weasley flirts with every female portrait in that wing of the castle, including the singing nuns around the corner, and can be counted on to draw a fake nose and moustache on any portrait foolish enough to fall asleep near him. Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks spend most of their time behaving like a pair of hormonal adolescents, to the point of nausea, and Sirius Black either sulks and looks jealous, or joins Weasley and his nuns. Dobby's voice is like nails on a chalkboard and his favourite topic is Harry Potter." His mouth twisted into a sneer. "Even a portrait's patience has limits."

"My patience has limits too," Harry said, with a dark look at Snape.

"Then you had better hope you've prepared the heather roots correctly. Time is almost up."

"Just finished, actually. Do they pass inspection?" Harry asked, with a sarcastic, sweeping gesture at the chopped roots.

"They'd better," said Draco. "If you make me vomit again, I'm using your shoes instead of the basin."

"As entertaining as that might be," said Snape, "the roots appear perfectly adequate. When you add them, don't forget to--"

"Stir counter-clock-wise, yes, I know," said Harry, as he added the roots to the cauldron. The three of them remained silent as Harry stirred, and they all watched for the anticipated shift in color.

"It's blue," Draco finally said. "But is that the right shade? I don't think it is. I'm not drinking that."

"It's _exactly_ the right shade." Harry ladled up a dose. "Cerulean blue. Isn't that cerulean?" Harry asked Snape.

"It is cerulean, yes," said Snape.

Harry offered the glass to Draco, who just stared at Harry, eyes narrowed. Feeling the edges of exhaustion, and now running into yet another obstacle on this most trying of days, Harry found himself suddenly pushed to his limits. "Fine, then," he said, slamming the glass onto the table in front of Draco. "We know you need to take this potion within the next twenty minutes or it will be rendered ineffective, and I just spent the last four hours preparing it, but that's all right. I'm sure sitting around and staring at it will do just as well. Then you and I can get back to our beds, sleep for a whole...five and a half hours, and then you can get up and teach Potions. How does that sound?"

"I understand your concerns, Draco," said Snape, with a withering glance at Harry. "Believe me, I understand. But Potter has done an...admirable job preparing this potion." Harry stared at Snape, who was now refusing to look at him.

"The potion is safe," Snape continued. "You must take it."

"I don't want to," said Draco, sounding much the same as he had in the corridor several hours ago--lost, confused, and distrustful. And very young.

"We've been over this, Draco," said Snape. "If you do not restore your memories tonight, you run every risk of losing your job, your respectability, everything you've worked for these last years."

"Yes, you've explained that all to me. It's just, now that it comes down to it, I'm finding the idea of turning my head into a Pensieve for Potter to play around in to be the less desirable of the two options."

Harry sighed, already regretting his earlier outburst. "Draco," he said, and Draco tensed further, glaring defiantly at Harry. But Harry could see the nervousness in his eyes. "I can do this. Trust me."

Draco finally looked down. "Why are you doing this? Why do you care?"

"As strange as this may sound, I've come to like you. You git."

A muscle near Draco's jaw twitched, and he ran a hand abruptly through his hair. "And two months ago? I mean...four years...you know when I mean. Don't try to tell me you liked me then."

"I won't try to tell you that," Harry said. "But I've never regretted it. In fact, I've had nightmares before about...about not getting to you in time."

Draco crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Well, I'm not going to thank you."

Harry couldn't help smiling at that. "You already did--several months ago. Better drink that potion, or you'll never remember it."

"As if that's any motivation," Draco muttered, sinking into a chair and staring at the glass in front of him.

"If you focus properly on the appropriate memory," said Snape, "there is no need for Potter to see any others."

Draco stared at Snape for a moment, then closed his eyes and appeared to be concentrating as if his life depended on it. Grimacing, he grabbed up the glass and swallowed the potion.

For a moment, Harry was afraid they were going to need the basin again after all, as Draco leaned forward, groaning softly and shoving the emptied glass away from him. But then he sat back, took several deep breaths, and his face went slack. He appeared to be sleeping, except that his eyes were still open. It was disturbing.

"Is he..."

"He's fine, yes," said Snape. "His eyes need to be open for Legilimency to take effect. You'll need--"

"Eye contact, right."

"Do not interrupt me," Snape said angrily. "I told Draco you could be trusted not to damage him, that this was the most advisable course of action. You will not make me regret that decision. If you do, I promise you, portrait or not, I will make you regret your very birth."

"I'm not going to damage him, Snape, for fuck's sake. I care more about him than you do."

"Do you? And what makes you think that is in your favor? It's your emotional, reckless impulsiveness that is most likely to cause problems here. This should be a simple task--_if_ you can maintain your focus on remaining invisible. _If_ you can avoid being influenced by anything you might see. _If_ you can remember to find the appropriate memory, remove the blockage that is preventing access to his more recent memories, and _get out_ before you--"

"I thought you said that if he focused on that memory, it would take me straight there?"

"And I thought I told you _not_ to interrupt me. Yes, if his focus was perfect when he took the potion, that is the first memory you will see. If his focus was _not_ perfect, you may find yourself in a related, but different memory. It is vital that you remember enough of what he told us to recognize his last memory. Do you remember?"

"Lucius, two months after the war, spouting off about obtaining Ministry positions within three years. Yes, I remember."

"Do you remember what room he said they were in? Do you remember what glasses he said they were drinking from?"

"Yes, yes, I remember all that. But once I get there. When I need to free up those other memories. Will there...actually be a door?"

Snape frowned at him. Harry was used to this, but he got the impression Snape was actually considering Harry's question.

"If you are really that literal-minded, perhaps there will be."

"What do you mean?"

"I have already explained to you the degree of defenselessness this potion will have placed him in. You can act upon his memories, change them at will. It is your intention to free the memories that renders whatever action you take meaningful. If, to your mind, that action is opening a door, then opening a door will likely work. Just make certain you are opening the correct door."

"Right," said Harry, crossing the room to Draco and kneeling on the floor in front of him. "I think we've covered that."

"Which is why it is _vital_," Snape continued, "that you maintain your focus on remaining unseen. Although the memories should feel and appear much like Pensieve memories, you _can_ interact with them if you so choose, permanently inserting yourself into whatever memory you take it into your head to damage."

"You've told me that already too. If you don't have anything new to add, we're just wasting time."

Brushing Draco's hair back from his eyes, Harry leaned forward and gazed into them intently.

_"Legilimens."_


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as his world righted itself, Harry realized he was standing in the drawing room at Malfoy manor. And he was wearing his invisibility cloak. If Snape hadn't thought him literal-minded before, he certainly would once he heard about this. If Harry told him. Which he probably wouldn't.

"There is nothing wrong with being friendly with half-bloods, Draco," Lucius said sternly behind him.

Harry turned, and was startled to see Draco as a child, no more than nine or ten years old, face a bit rounder than Harry remembered it, but already giving way to angles. Draco's focus had been less than perfect, obviously.

"Some of them are very accomplished wizards," Lucius continued, "and it is hardly their fault that their parents exercised poor judgement when it came to choosing a spouse. You would do well to conceal your distaste for them, even in what you believe to be pureblood circles, because a rather high proportion of them pretend to be purebloods." He fixed Draco with a stern gaze. "Unless you are absolutely certain of the bloodline of every single person in a room, you cannot be certain that you won't insult one of them by accident. It is extremely foolish to do so; you never know when you might need a favor from somebody you have deeply offended."

Very nice. So this was what passed for tolerance in the Malfoy household.

Draco looked sullen and rebellious, and Lucius sighed. "Draco, your feelings are understandable, but you must learn to control the way you express them. Of course half-bloods are not equal to purebloods, but who would you rather have on your side: an accomplished half-blood, who does his best to overcome his regrettable heritage, or a blood traitor who shames purebloods everywhere with his complete lack of respect for pureblood ideals? A Bulstrode, or a Weasley?"

Draco tilted his head to the side, in that same way he still did sometimes when puzzled by something Harry had said, and Harry felt a surprisingly strong surge of fondness for the pointy little boy in front of him. "Then why doesn't Mother ever visit her sister? The one with the half-blood daughter?"

"Because that is a completely different issue," Lucius said impatiently. "Accepting half-bloods socially is very different from considering them part of the family. Some of our closest allies may be half-bloods, but we would never allow you to marry one." Lucius frowned. "And that sentiment does not need to be public knowledge, by the way. We would never dream of encouraging you to marry the Bulstrode girl when you are an adult, but if her family becomes more powerful, we might encourage them to hope for an alliance of that sort with us. It would be unthinkable to do so with a Weasley, even if they produced dozens of girls."

Draco pressed his lips together, and Lucius' tone became stern once more. "Now. You will apologize to Millicent Bulstrode. You will treat her with respect, and keep your opinions of her family background to yourself. Is that clear?"

Draco nodded stiffly and followed his father out the door. Harry didn't leave with them. This wasn't the memory he needed to see.

He waited for the scene to dissolve and shift to another memory, but after a long moment, nothing had happened. Draco's mind might have been turned into a Pensieve, of sorts, but it obviously did not behave like one in all respects. Snape, however, had said that Harry had the ability to influence the memories if he chose. Perhaps if he concentrated...

Closing his eyes, he focused hard on Draco's description: Lucius, talking to Draco--an older Draco--about regaining their proper place in wizarding society. After a long moment, he opened his eyes, frustrated to find himself standing in the same empty room. Well, this was stupid.

Invisibility cloak billowing as he turned, Harry crossed the room, and--everything tilted and spun as he stepped through the doorway.

The door. Literal-minded. Right, well Snape wasn't hearing about this either, he decided firmly, as he examined his new surroundings.

He was in a study. A very pretentious one, he decided, noting the antique décor, the overstated elegance that dripped from every corner of the room. Dark Magic dripped from every corner, as well. Gold-gilded skulls and crushed velvet drapes. It looked like an unholy cross between Grimmauld Place and those mansions that Aunt Petunia drooled over in _Royalty._

But where was... Ah. There they were. Draco and Lucius, staring at each other, their expressions uncompromising. But damn, it was still the wrong memory.

"I cannot believe you used that offensive word in public, Draco! That is completely unacceptable!"

"So what?" said Draco. "You use it!"

"Draco!" Lucius snapped, before visibly getting a hold of himself. "Using that kind of language in public is disgraceful. You have _never_ heard me stoop to that level, nor will you. However distasteful they are, in public they are _Muggle-borns_, do you understand me?"

Harry rolled his eyes. This was obviously one lesson Draco hadn't taken to heart. Though now that he thought about it, he really _couldn't_ remember Lucius using the word "Mudblood" in public.

Harry gave them a closer look. Although Draco was now taller, the angles of his face sharper, his sullen expression was the same. Harry couldn't help noticing, though, that Draco was mirroring his father's posture exactly, back stiff, arms crossed. He had a brief desire to step forward and give them both a bit of a shock. Maybe use a few choice words on Lucius for his hypocrisy. Maybe let Draco know that someday a Mudblood was going to help save his life.

Pushing down the temptation, he glanced around for a door.

"But--"

"You know very well how I feel about those people," said Lucius forcefully, "and how most of the wizarding world feels about them. But as long as the political climate remains as it is today, and until those who share our principles and beliefs can regain their proper place in wizarding society, you _will_ call them Muggle-borns. Is that absolutely clear?"

Standing around watching Lucius prove once again that he was indeed a rotten bastard wasn't any more productive than standing around in an empty room, Harry realized. Taking one last opportunity to glare at an oblivious Lucius through his invisibility cloak, Harry turned and walked through the doorway again, attempting to better focus his thoughts--it was a more recent memory he was looking for. An older Lucius, an older Draco, who had already suffered during the war, already learned painful lessons.

Harry blinked in the dimly lit hallway. Draco was sitting on a chair by the drawing room door, back slightly hunched, arms crossed over his chest. There were no signs of anyone else nearby, but Draco kept shifting nervously and glancing about the room, as if he was expecting something. His wand--the hawthorn wand--was clenched in one fist.

What was he worried about?

It didn't matter. It was stupid to wonder, silly to want to put a hand on Draco's shoulder, tell him everything was going to be all right. This was all in the past. He glanced around, frustrated. The wand made it clear this was the wrong memory, and Lucius wasn't even _here_.

He moved to step through the nearest doorway, but stopped, startled, at the simultaneous pops of multiple Apparitions. The hallway was suddenly filled with loud voices and many people, some in cloaks and masks, others in tattered Azkaban uniforms. Draco jumped to his feet, shoving his wand into his pocket. He searched the group, eyes darting from face to face, and froze.

"Father..." Draco's eyes were huge for a moment, before he stared down at the floor, as if he couldn't bear to look.

Harry couldn't blame him. This was not a Lucius Malfoy he had ever seen. He'd seen Lucius diminished, seen him beaten and ragged near the end of the time that he'd been in Voldemort's clutches, but this...

Lucius was pale, paler than Harry had ever seen him, almost colorless, and the careful attention he'd once paid to his appearance was gone. He was thin and bearded, his hair dirty, tangled, and limp, and his eyes were much older than they had been before Azkaban. Harry wondered if Draco had ever seen his father in Azkaban. If not, this would be two years since he'd last set eyes on him.

Both Malfoys stood without speaking as the others filed past, into the drawing room. One stared at Draco menacingly as he walked by, causing Draco to flinch, but the rest ignored him.

"Draco," said Lucius quietly, and his voice was rough with lack of use. He made an abrupt movement toward Draco, as if to embrace him, but they both froze at the roar of laughter that came from the other room.

"Where is your mother?"

"She's waiting for you. In the drawing room. She wanted me to wait upstairs, but..."

"You should listen to your mother, Draco," Lucius said quietly.

Two more loud pops sounded in the hallway, and Harry stiffened, horrified. Voldemort. And Bellatrix beside him. Harry reached for his wand, then halted his movement. Voldemort was dead; this wasn't really happening. It had happened years ago. To Draco.

Draco's face had grown pale, and his hands were visibly trembling. Once more, he was staring at the ground. He looked seconds away from being violently ill.

"Comparing failures, Lucius?" said Voldemort coldly. "There will be time for that later."

Voldemort swept past Draco, into the drawing room, and Draco shivered slightly, eyes closed.

"Hurry up, Lucius," Bellatrix said with a sneer. "Our family can't afford any more of your mistakes."

She left the hallway, and Lucius moved to follow her, but hesitated before entering the room.

"It will be all right, Draco. We just need to prove ourselves again."

Draco nodded tightly.

Harry turned away. He couldn't afford to keep getting the wrong memory. He needed to focus--and not just on Lucius and Draco, he remembered. He was sure Draco had mentioned Narcissa being in the room too. Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco, together, after the war. Crossing to another door--he didn't want to enter that drawing room--he opened it...

... and stepped into the Great Hall.

Bloody hell.

Harry looked around, not really wanting to revisit this scene, but rooted to the spot in horrified fascination. The air thick with dust, the images battering away at him, the memories still too raw, even after four years. Joy and grief hung in the air even thicker than the dust. Ginny, holding Molly as she sobbed; Luna, her gaze less vague than he'd ever seen it as she helped Madam Pomfrey; George, silently leaning against Lee Jordan; Neville, his face dirty and his eyes weary--and there was Harry himself, being pulled into hugs, his hand shaken, people crying on him. He stared at himself. He remembered the bone-deep exhaustion he'd felt, the desperate desire for sleep. He'd looked even worse than he remembered feeling. Filthy, pale, stained with blood--some of it probably Snape's, he remembered with an unpleasant lurch in his stomach. Some from Fred. And who knew who else's.

And there they were. Draco, Narcissa, and Lucius, huddled together, glancing around the hall nervously. Harry turned his back on the images of heartbreak and hurried toward them. This was certainly not the right memory, but he might get something from it, some link to the memory he was actually looking for...

"Should we try to leave?" Draco was saying in a hushed voice. "Nobody's paying any attention to us, I don't think they'll notice..."

Lucius moved to get up, but Narcissa stilled him with one hand. "No," she said, resolve forming on her face. "Where would we go?"

"Home, pick up some things, and then--"

"You don't think they'd track us down there? Even if we only stayed long enough to grab a few essentials and leave, we'd be hunted down--your father's still under a prison sentence." She paused. "I will not be a fugitive. _We_ will not be fugitives. We will stay here, and deal with the authorities. We will capitalize on the fact that I just helped save their precious Savior's life, and that you, Draco, tried to prevent him from being killed by Vincent. I know why you did, but we will simply remind Potter of the debt he owes me and convince him to show us in the proper light."

Draco frowned at her, clearly doubtful.

"Draco," she said impatiently, "if we run away now, we might as well abandon all hope of ever belonging to respectable wizarding society again. We will be indicating that we believe ourselves to be on the losing side." She shook her head. "We _will_ stay here, and we will act as though we belong here, and we will make certain nobody forgets what we did to enable Potter's success." Draco turned to Lucius, but he was staring blankly and seemed to have nothing to add to the conversation.

"We will use anything and anyone we can," Narcissa said firmly, glaring at them both. She looked over the crowd, her brows drawing together slightly. Harry followed her gaze and blanched. Andromeda Tonks was sitting beside her daughter's body, her eyes empty and face blank, barely a table away. The small blue-haired baby in her arms was sleeping, and although Hestia Jones was sitting with her, gazing worriedly at her, Andromeda seemed completely submerged in grief.

Narcissa cleared her throat and stood, approaching Andromeda, and for a horrified moment Harry thought she was going to scream at her, or... well, he had no idea what she was going to do, but it wasn't going to be anything good. Not scream at her; Harry would've known if she'd done that; he had still been in the room at the time. But maybe attach herself to Andromeda while she was in the depth of shock over her daughter's death, manipulate her into supporting Narcissa and her family... he held his breath, wanting nothing more than to pull her away. Then Narcissa stopped in front of Andromeda, hesitantly put a hand on her shoulder.

Hestia Jones seemed frozen in place as Andromeda looked up, eyes still blank.

"Andy. I'm so sorry," Narcissa said, the words barely audible above the noise of the room. "I'm so sorry." She looked at the baby. "Is this your grandson?"

Andromeda looked down.

Narcissa extended a hand towards him, drew it back quickly, cleared her throat. "He... he's beautiful, Andy."

Andromeda nodded numbly.

"You probably don't want... I won't bother you. Please," Narcissa turned to Hestia. "If she... if she asks for me, please let me know. Please let me help her."

Hestia's eyes were narrowed, but Narcissa had done nothing objectionable. And Harry couldn't tell if any of it--the words, the air of compassion warring with hesitance--was genuine or just a masterful way of disarming suspicion.

Whatever it was, Hestia Jones was taken in. She nodded slowly.

Narcissa came back to her husband and son, and Harry was surprised to see her wipe her eyes.

Feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur, he backed away, looking for a door. There. The door to the antechamber behind the High Table. He headed towards it, steadfastly ignoring the scenes of grief around him, and opened the door. He stepped through.

"To the end of the trial," said Narcissa, and Draco and Lucius raised their glasses and drank.

This was it, Harry realized. The memory he had been looking for. And he hadn't even remembered to focus when he'd stepped through the doorway.

He looked around the room curiously. Malfoy Manor. The dining room. It looked a bit dishevelled, with a few blank spots on the walls where paintings had probably hung until recently.

"The end of all of the trials," Lucius said, and Harry frowned. That voice. He'd grown used to the lack of authority in it from the times he'd seen into Voldemort's mind during the war itself, but Lucius had maintained a stony silence throughout most of his trial, and Harry had not heard him speak since Voldemort's death. His voice was weak, thready, and tired. His hair was once again immaculate, his clothing elegant, but there was an aura of frailty, of too much effort expended to simply maintaining a casual air. "To new beginnings," Lucius said, and the other two drank again.

There was a silence, as they began to eat the salads in front of them.

"When is your interview this week, Draco?" Lucius asked, and Draco and his mother exchanged a quick glance.

"I'm not sure I will be doing that after all," Draco said offhandedly. "I took a better look at the position, and it's not really something I'm all that interested in."

Lucius' eyebrows climbed up. "I beg your pardon?"

"It's not really anything that interests me, Father," Draco said. "It's more of a clerical position than I thought at first--"

"Well I'm sure it's not anything worthy of your talents," Lucius said irritably, "but that's not the point. You have to start somewhere."

"It's a clerical position," Draco said again. "Assistantship. I don't want to establish myself as an errand boy."

Lucius frowned. "I suppose you have a point. We'll go over some of the other new positions available tomorrow. The Ministry's sure to be short-staffed right now; we should be able to work ourselves in within a year, and within three years I would not be surprised to find ourselves back where we were before all of this... unpleasantness."

Draco nodded and ate, and it was almost palpable, the feeling that he and Narcissa weren't looking at each other, deliberately.

And Lucius was missing it completely.

Right. Well, who cared what Lucius was missing. Draco was missing four years of his memories, and Harry needed to fix it. Now. He walked to the door.

When Draco finished this meal, he would leave this room; he would exit through this door. Every important memory that Draco could no longer access was on the other side. Grasping the doorknob, Harry attempted to turn it, and was entirely unsurprised to find it locked.

_Alohomora_ didn't work either. He hadn't really expected it to. That spell never did work on really important doors.

But then maybe that was part of the problem. Snape had said Harry had the power to do this. Harry just needed to take firm, decisive action--something certain to work. He slid his hand along the door, then glanced back at Draco, who was finishing his salad. This door wasn't really vital to this memory. Draco wouldn't be likely to miss it. If it were gone.

"_Reducto"_ he thought, hard, at the door, nonverbally so that Draco would not remember a detached voice shouting spells in the dining room, and the door blasted open. Harry wondered if Draco would actually _remember_ the door blasting open, and if it would be much of a problem if he did, but he supposed he could ask that of Draco later--once he made certain that Draco was all right. Which he would be. Draco would teach his classes in the morning, and they could talk the whole thing over at the Three Broomsticks after dinner.

He just needed to make sure. Too focused to even bother glancing back, he had no idea if the Malfoys were staring at the broken door or still eating their salads, oblivious, as he walked through the doorway.

He stepped into a sitting room and felt an overwhelming thrill of victory, delight, and relief course through him. There was Draco--an older Draco, this memory couldn't be from more than a year ago--sitting on the sofa next to Narcissa. Harry walked closer, knowing that he was grinning like an idiot under his invisibility cloak, but not caring in the slightest.

"You told him _what?"_ Draco was looking up from a piece of parchment, gaping at his mother.

"I told him what I needed to, in order to get you a job."

Draco's mouth was hanging open. "I... I've never even been to the Lutece Potions Institute."

Harry's smile faded.

"Nor has he. Nor has anybody on the hiring committee."

Merlin's saggy left arsecheek. Harry stared at Draco and Narcissa.

"But..."

"No one there even speaks French. All you need to do is inform yourself about the school and prepare yourself for the sorts of questions that will be posed to you--"

"But--"

"You are a perfectly capable student. Severus always said that you would receive top marks in anything you applied yourself to."

"Severus said a lot of things," Draco said, flushing.

Yes, lots of people said lots of things. For example, that they'd been to French potions academies when they bloody well hadn't.

"Draco. You need to do this."

"I do not need to--why?"

"Because your father and I aren't getting any younger, and your father's plans have not exactly..." she paused. "Draco, you have your life ahead of you. You have to do something with it."

"But why teaching?"

"It's an excellent opportunity to build up respectability and connections. And possibly the only way you will ever be able to hope for a proper job at the Ministry."

"Mother..." he glanced back at the parchment. "It says here that I sang in the Lutece Academy choir."

Well, this explained why Draco had never agreed to sing anything when Harry had teased him about his choir experience. The lying bastard.

"Horace let me know of several things that people ask at these interviews. You need to have anecdotes available in case you're questioned."

"Anecdotes," Draco repeated weakly, then blinked. "And since when does Horace Slughorn talk to any of us?"

"Since I met him at a house-elf function, told him we were back from Paris, and convinced him that our star was on the rise again."

Draco gave his mother a hard stare. Narcissa colored slightly, but she drew her chin up, refusing to lose the battle of wills.

"And that's all you did? Just convince him we were on our way up?"

"Is there something else you think I did?"

This time Draco dropped his gaze.

Narcissa smiled grimly. "I told him you volunteered with the younger children of--"

"I volunteered? To teach children? In what universe--"

"In the one where you are going to do your duty towards this family! I endured that man's revolting smiles and halitosis--"

"Halitosis?!"

"He insisted on recounting to me the _entire_ story of how Gwenog Jones managed to get him crystallised pineapple," Narcissa said, her voice pained. "Carefully dropping all sorts of tidbits about how much she valued their friendship, how she turned to him with team problems, all the while breathing into my face... it was excruciating, Draco, and you are _not_ going to make that in vain."

"But--"

"No!" Narcissa was truly angry now. "You are not going to waste the time that I spent flattering that disgusting old man by deciding that you're too good for such things! If your father won't stir himself to make something of himself again, the very least you can do is--"

"I'm sorry," Draco said quickly. He took a deep breath. "You're right, I'm sorry." He looked back down at the resume he was holding. "So. What else have I supposedly done..." He read a few lines, and looked up with a pained glance. "I spent four months volunteering with Muggle-born children while in Paris? Why didn't you say I rescued drowning kittens as well? That would be about as believable."

"Because Dolores Umbridge is trying to get onto the hiring committee, and she'd want you to talk about kittens," Narcissa said crisply.

Draco chuckled, then sobered. "Mother... I don't... I can't..."

"You have the support of Harry Potter--"

Harry clenched his fist.

"_You_ have the support of Harry Potter--" Draco said bitterly.

"It's the same thing," Narcissa said evenly. "You have Horace Slughorn behind you. If they speak to Severus, you'll have his support too. You can do this, Draco. You're intelligent, and accomplished, and you can get this job."

"But can I do the job, once I get it?"

"Of course you can."

"Mother, I barely finished seventh year. How am I qualified to teach it?"

"You've always made excellent headache potions for me. You have a natural talent in this area. Severus always said so. You'll have a great deal of studying to do, but Severus' portrait will help you, I'm sure."

Draco shook his head, still gazing at the resume.

"Please, Draco," Narcissa said, and Harry blinked as her haughty expression disappeared entirely. "You know you need to do this."

Draco sighed.

"Besides," she said quietly, "You'll be working with Harry Potter. It'll be an excellent opportunity to--"

"Potter," spat Draco, and Harry was amazed at the animosity Draco had apparently still felt for him. "You know he's only doing this because he wants to remind me that I'm in his debt, see me fail at something else."

Harry stared at Draco incredulously. Had he really still been that self-centered, that immature, just one short year ago? Or did he just behave like this around his mother?

"He hates me," Draco said darkly. "And I hate him," he added a moment later, almost as an afterthought.

"He's helping you get this job because he owes me a favor. And it doesn't matter how you feel about him," Narcissa said briskly. "You don't need to _like_ him to befriend him. With his support, you can--"

"Befriend," Draco said bitterly. "That's what Father wanted me to do when we were eleven. Look how far I got with that."

"Now's your chance to do it right, then."

"And how would you suggest? Just walk right up to him? Offer him my hand? Oh, wait, I tried that one already."

"You're both _adults_ now, and soon you will be coworkers. Socialize with him. Discover his interests. Involve yourself in the same activities. You can do this, Draco."

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and let out his breath, nodding resignedly.

Harry steadied his breathing, suddenly realizing his fingernails had dug creases in the palms of his hands.

_Socialize with him. Discover his interests. Involve yourself in the same activities._ All of it, lies.

And he'd walked right in. It burned. More than he would've ever suspected.

Fuck. He took a deep breath, set his jaw, and firmly ordered himself to carry on. He'd done his job, and now he needed to get out of here. Standing like an idiot staring at Draco wasn't going to help him do that.

And how _was_ he supposed to get out of here, it suddenly occurred to him to wonder. Why the hell hadn't Snape told him? Well, he'd figure it out from the next memory. He wasn't staying in this room another minute.

Turning sharply, he stalked through the door.

He found himself standing in the Potions classroom. And there was Draco, at the teacher's desk, chatting with Slughorn, so it had to be autumn at the latest, as Slughorn had finally left the castle a week into term.

Harry took a deep breath. Right. So he needed to get out of here. Walking through a door would probably work. He'd been too upset to focus properly just now, but he could do it this time. He just...needed a minute to calm down, and he'd try again.

He focused on Draco and Slughorn's conversation.

"... has really been invaluable, sir," Draco was saying.

"Always glad to lend a hand, my boy," Slughorn said genially. "I suppose you'll be putting your own input in there, some of the new material you learned at Lutece?"

"Frankly, sir, I'm very tempted to just use your syllabus as is," Draco said earnestly. Harry suppressed a cynical snort. "The instructors at Lutece were quite good, but there's no substitute for teaching methods that have been tested as well as yours have."

Harry clenched his fists again.

"To be honest," Draco continued, "half the time, they were really just teaching things I'd already learned from you."

Oh that was rich. 'To be honest.' As if Draco had any idea of what that meant.

"I think you'll do quite well here, my boy," Slughorn said kindly. "Now I know it's no secret I originally recommended Harry for this job, but I must say, you'll do quite nicely. Especially with your background in Lutece. I know you're flattering an old man's ego," he chuckled, "but I happen to know Lutece is a fine institution. Some of the best Potions research comes out of there." He paused. "Besides, Harry's quite brilliant at Potions--gets it from his mother, blood really does tell--but I can understand why he'd be even more qualified to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. We're certainly lucky to have him."

"Oh yes, absolutely," Draco said, nodding.

"And I don't know if he told you--probably wouldn't have, he's nothing if not humble--but he spoke on your behalf quite eloquently."

Draco smiled, and Harry wondered if Slughorn could see that his smile was just a bit... tighter.

"You're quite lucky to have him on your side too, my boy. Lucky indeed."

"Indeed," Draco echoed, and Harry felt a small vindictive bit of pleasure as he noted that Draco was gritting his teeth.

"Well, I mustn't keep you, I know you've got class in--" Slughorn glanced at the classroom clock. "Good heavens! Five minutes!"

Draco nodded, swallowing nervously.

"Don't worry, my boy, you'll do just fine. You've got my lesson plans, you've got your own most impressive academic background, you've got years of experience working with children..." Slughorn smiled again. "I know it's probably a little different, teaching at your own old school, but don't worry--just look at all you've accomplished in three short years. I can always spot a young person who'll go far and believe me, Draco, you will go far."

With a final oily smile, Slughorn departed. Harry moved to follow, but turned around at a sudden noise from behind.

Draco had dropped into the teacher's chair, elbows on the desk and head in his hands. He was rubbing his face, and for the first time, Harry noticed that Draco's hands were shaking. He took several deep breaths, face still covered.

Harry firmly quashed a wave of sympathy. Of course Draco was nervous, shaking. There he was, about to start a job he had absolutely no qualifications for, with nothing to work from but a smarmy old man's outdated lesson plans and a fictional academic background.

Harry could almost picture Slughorn's lesson plans, too. One: Introduce yourself, dropping as many famous names as possible. Two: learn the students' names. Three: quiz them on their family backgrounds. Four: observe their interactions to see who are the leaders among them, check for can-do expressions, self-confidence. Five: ingratiate self to those who look promising. Six: express a fondness for crystallized pineapple and fine oak-matured mead. Seven: maybe mention Potions at some point.

Draco looked up as the door opened, and Harry was amazed at how quickly he went from nervous and shaking to composed and confident. Very nice. Master role-players, those Malfoys.

Draco waited for the class to fill, the students giving him curious glances. Second year Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, Harry realized, recognizing the students. Not a bad group to start with.

"Good morning," Draco said once the students had settled themselves.

"Good morning, sir," the class responded in varying tones of curiosity.

"I am Professor Malfoy, and I will be teaching you Potions this year."

Harry looked around, losing Draco's introduction as he examined the young faces in front of him. It really was a fairly good class. There were only two trouble-makers in it, and they both appeared to be absent right now. Probably, he realized, because they'd already been in trouble that morning. He vaguely remembered them both missing the first day of school due to some prank they'd tried to play on a Thestral.

"Now, before we begin, let's--" Draco paused, frowning at the parchment in his hand. "Let's take a moment to get to know each other better." Harry snorted quietly as he turned to leave. Those were Slughorn's lesson plans, all right. "Has anyone here--" There was a slight pause. "Yes? You had a question, Mister...?"

"Meyers, sir. Is it true you were in Harry Potter's year?" Harry stopped and turned back around.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I was."

"So you knew him when you were kids, then?"

"I suppose so. We weren't in the same--"

"I heard he did a lot of stuff breaking the rules," said another student, a girl this time. "Did he?"

"Well, he--"

"Slug--Professor Slughorn, he wouldn't say anything interesting about him that we didn't already know," the girl said. "But I think he must've been brilliant!" There was a small murmur of assent. Draco's classroom management skills were atrocious. Or perhaps he was just too busy managing his own reactions at the moment.

"I... I suppose so," Draco said stiffly. "He certainly attracted a great deal of attention to himself."

There was another frisson of excitement. "Now, if there are no more questions--"

"'S it true he was a brilliant Seeker?" asked a very small Hufflepuff.

Draco blinked. "He did fairly well, yes."

"Youngest Seeker in a century," one boy said importantly. "'S what my aunt says."

"Yes, he was," Draco said, again gritting his teeth.

"Were you on the Quidditch team?"

Draco nodded.

"What position did you play?" "Did you ever fly against him?" "Did you ever beat him?"

"I--Seeker, but--well, he--" Draco frowned, and Harry chuckled, silencing himself immediately as a student glanced over to where he was standing.

Right, no interference in the memories.

"Is there anyone who has a question that is _not_ about Harry Potter?" Draco snapped, exasperated.

The class fell silent. Draco shook his head impatiently and went to the blackboard again. "Good. Now. Take out your textbooks, and turn to page five. We are going to do a short review of safety procedures in the lab. This should all be familiar to you, so I expect you all to be able to complete it with a minimum of difficulty. I also expect you to hand in to me, tomorrow, five inches on proper care when handling Class B ingredients, as well as a list of what kinds of ingredients are considered Class B."

There was a small groan from the students.

"Actually, why don't we make that Class B and Class C. This year we will be using some of the Class Cs, so we might as well start learning about them right now."

Harry remembered seeing Draco at lunch on the first day of school--the man had been grim to the point of surliness. No wonder. He backed away, heading for the door, still chuckling to himself. As soon as he got out of here, he'd have to tell Draco--

He froze at the door, amusement dying in his chest. Tell Draco what? That he'd seen first-hand evidence that Draco's feelings hadn't changed nearly as much as he'd liked to pretend that they had? That he knew exactly what Draco had been up to that first time he asked Harry to the Three Broomsticks? He shook his head, pushing the thoughts from his mind. He needed to focus on getting out of here, back into his own head. There would be more than enough time to decide what to say to Draco--_Malfoy_, he reminded himself angrily--later.

He stepped through, felt everything dissolve--and cursed silently as the setting of another memory formed itself around him.

"Oh! Sorry, didn't see you there," said a voice, and Harry turned around, surprised to find himself facing... himself.

They were outdoors--a grey and windy day, in Hogsmeade, looked like early autumn--and Draco and an earlier version of Harry were both looking a bit startled. They were at the door of Honeydukes, Draco on his way out, Harry on his way in. A package of sweets lay on the ground just outside the door--Draco had bumped into him, Harry remembered. They both bent down to retrieve it.

"Sorry, didn't see--" Draco began.

"No, my fault, sorry," said Harry. He straightened up, handed the bag to Draco, glancing at it briefly. "Cockroach clusters?" he asked with a small smile.

"My mother likes them," Draco said, a bit stiff. "They're not available in Diagon Alley."

Memory-Harry gave a small chuckle. "Your mother. Likes Cockroach Clusters." He shook his head. "All right, that's not something I would've ever guessed."

They glanced at each other, both a bit uncertain. Harry started to go past Draco, who moved aside quickly.

"Sorry, I'm in your way. Going in for the sale?"

Memory-Harry nodded. "Got a shipment of Sugar Quills that's coming in. For, erm, for class," he said quickly as Draco's eyebrows went up. "They're actually quite useful against vampires, believe it or not, if you're talking about the Nosferatu variety--they can be distracted by sugar even if they're hungry for blood--of course that's pretty much only if they're willing to be distracted, but then again part of DADA is dealing with Dark creatures that aren't currently being particularly Dark, like werewolves or..." He stopped, and Harry winced. He'd figured he'd sounded like he was babbling at the time. It wasn't pleasant to be proven right. "Anyway, I ordered a shipment. It's supposed to be--"

"Oh. No, it's not, actually" said Draco. "The owner was just complaining about his shipments not coming in today."

"Oh." Memory-Harry looked at a bit of a loss. "So... where are you going?" he asked.

"Erm, to the Three Broomsticks," said Draco, looking a bit startled that Harry had asked.

"Sounds good," said Harry.

He'd felt a bit uneasy at that moment, Harry remembered suddenly, watching his face in the memory. Because he'd thought to himself that it might be nice to go to the Three Broomsticks, but... well, Draco was going, and they'd been polite to each other so far but...

Draco hefted his bag of Honeydukes purchases and made as if to head off, then paused. "Actually, where are you going?" he asked, and Harry in the memory looked a bit nonplussed.

"I... I don't know."

"Why not the Three Broomsticks? It's miserable out here," said Draco, looking so damn poised, and memory-Harry had no idea how to say no.

It was odd, watching his own face reflect what he had felt. The wariness, surprise, and indecision.

"All right, yeah," said Harry, and followed Draco towards the Broomsticks.

Don't look, Harry told himself. He didn't want to hurry forward and try to see what Draco's expression looked like right now. He didn't want to confirm that this hadn't been the wholly innocent surprise encounter it had seemed to be at the time, didn't want to see the look of satisfaction on Draco's face at having manouvered Harry into a social outing.

He followed them to the Three Broomsticks--he needed a door, after all--but despite a redoubled effort at properly focusing his thoughts, he found himself following them inside instead of stepping into another memory.

He sighed. This was really getting tedious. He glanced over at the two of them seating themselves at a table, and edged closer despite himself.

"Nosferatu, then?" Draco asked. "I don't remember that being part of the syllabus in DADA."

"Well, no, I'm working blind, a bit," said Harry. "It's almost impossible to get any kind of lesson plans from previous years in DADA. It's been decades since there's been a teacher that lasted more than a year. I've had to make it up as I go along."

"That can't be easy," Draco said. "Seven years worth of lessons to make up, on your own?"

"No, it hasn't been easy. Last year was bloody exhausting. Don't worry; it gets easier the second year."

Draco nodded. "That's good to know. It's been... challenging, keeping up."

Harry pressed his lips together. Challenging. No doubt true. He wondered if he'd be lucky enough to hear Draco say anything else that happened to be true, or whether this was just an anomaly.

"I actually ended up using some of what I learned in Auror training, believe it or not," Harry said.

"Oh?" Draco said, expression unreadable. "I thought I understood you skipped training entirely."

"Skipped it?" Memory-Harry looked wary--_had_ felt wary, Harry remembered. He'd been certain Draco was going to start something over the blatantly preferential treatment Harry had received. He never had felt entirely comfortable over that. "Er, not exactly. They sped it up a bit. I trained for six weeks, rather than...er...the three years."

"Ah." Draco paused, and a moment later, a more pleasant expression appeared on his face. "Well, Slughorn's notes were invaluable to me. Use whatever works, I suppose."

"Yeah, that's my attitude too."

There was a small silence.

"I did find some of Amycus Carrow's notes."

Draco choked on his Butterbeer a bit, and grimaced.

"No, I didn't particularly want to see what was in them. Took them to Hagrid, and he used them as mulch for his Bubotubers."

"That's probably a lot more useful," Draco said. There was another small silence. "That... I can't think of anything he taught that was suitable for children."

"I can imagine."

Another silence.

"I," Draco began, then cleared his throat. "Speaking of that year, and lesson plans. Potter, I wanted to, erm, to thank you."

Memory-Harry's eyebrows went up. "Pardon?"

"I wanted to thank you. I owe you a great deal, I know that." Draco was staring at his Butterbeer. "Haven't really had an opportunity to let you know how much I appreciate what you did for me. Both helping me get this job and, well..." he looked up, meeting Harry's eyes seriously. "Saving my life. That night. I... it's hard to find an adequate way of expressing how grateful I am for that."

Memory-Harry nodded cautiously. "That's... that's all right. You're welcome." He cleared his throat too, looking down, and Harry remembered how he'd wondered how to respond. Because 'It was nothing' sounded rather obnoxious, and 'You would've done the same' rather ridiculous. "I couldn't... I couldn't let you--anybody--burn in that room. Not if there was some way to prevent it."

Draco nodded. "It still took a great deal of courage to go back for us. Not many people would have done that."

Memory-Harry cleared his throat again, looking very uncomfortable. "You did too, though."

Draco raised an eyebrow.

"That night. I grabbed your hand, but you held on to Goyle. You could've let go. You could've left him there to burn to death and saved yourself. You didn't."

Draco nodded, and there was another silence.

"You know, he almost didn't believe me when I told him Weasley and Granger had saved his life."

Harry laughed. "I can imagine. I don't think Ron would've believed it either if he hadn't done it."

"So... what are Granger and Weasley doing these days?" Draco asked, with an admirable attempt at casualness.

"Oh, Hermione's taken up an apprentice position with Carmella Burana, you know, the Medical Charms inventor?" Draco looked impressed, despite himself. "Ron's in Auror training, now. But he still moonlights at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes."

Draco nodded.

"What about Goyle?" asked Harry.

"He actually took up a position as reserve Beater for the Eldritches."

Memory-Harry frowned. "Eldritches? Haven't heard of them."

"No, they're not terribly well-known. To be honest I think they only took him because they were desperate. He's not actually... well, he's not the best Beater I've ever seen."

Memory-Harry tactfully refrained from agreeing. "Wouldn't have pegged him as the one to go pro."

"No. I think a lot of people would've thought you were going to, though."

Harry shook his head. "No. Never tempted, either. Don't like crowds. I thought I'd miss playing it, but I've actually found coaching more enjoyable."

"Really?"

"Really. Mostly. Right now the only problem is that I'm the only coach at school. Really wish Hooch had been able to stay on, but I can't say I blame her for leaving."

"She was offered a coaching spot with the Harpies, wasn't she?"

"Yeah. Hope she's enjoying it."

"So you're doing all the coaching these days?"

Harry nodded. "All of it. It's beginning to wear me down, to be honest."

Draco thought for a moment. "Actually... Now that I think of it, if you really need somebody else to help you with that... what would you think about me joining you?"

"What?"

"I could help. I do know how to play."

Harry blinked. "Oh." He looked somewhat off-balance. "I hadn't thought... well." He blinked a few more times. "You know, that would probably work out well. Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Draco said with a smile.

Bloody hell. What was he still doing here? Harry turned in frustration, striding toward the door. _Socialize with him. Discover his interests. Involve yourself in the same activities._ Draco had certainly wasted little time in doing that.

Filled with disgust for both Draco and the vastly more gullible version of himself, he almost yanked the door open and stepped into...

... The Three Broomsticks.

He stopped short, blinking in confusion. Turning, he looked behind himself, but instead of the crowded pub he'd just left, he saw only the street.

Bugger. That was... god, that was _hellishly_ disorienting.

"You hadn't seen Lydia fly before today then?" memory-Harry was asking as he and Draco sat down at a nearby table. Harry looked around. He even vaguely remembered this encounter.

"No! I had no idea she was that good," said Draco. "Has she thought of going professional?"

"Probably. Then again, she's fairly talented in a lot of fields, so I think she'll be able to do whatever she sets her mind to." Harry took a drink of Butterbeer. "Don't turn your back on her, though. Wicked sense of humor, but a little thoughtless."

"She never says much in Potions," said Draco.

"Well, no. She doesn't like Potions very much--never has, apparently," memory-Harry said hastily. "It's not you at all."

Harry could feel himself blushing. Had his attraction really been that obvious? He'd almost stammered there, in his rush to make sure he wasn't offending Draco. Draco didn't seem to have noticed, though. He was listening attentively, as memory-Harry continued speaking: "Horace said she almost slept through last year. Still managed Exceeds Expectations. She's a lot more lively in DADA. Not always a good thing."

"I suppose I should be grateful she doesn't like Potions," said Draco ruefully. "I've got enough on my hands with the seventh-year Ravenclaws."

Harry grinned. "I've heard. No, Lydia's a handful. Bright, but doesn't think things through. Like the other day, after the class on Boggarts, she thought it would be fun to start testing her classmates by throwing what they feared the most at them. Spiders, snakes, you name it. Didn't stop to think that it's one thing to be confronted with that kind of thing in a DADA classroom, and another in your dorm. To her it was just all in good fun."

"I take it she handled her Boggart well?"

Harry laughed. "She was brilliant!"

"What was hers?"

Memory-Harry's eyes were bright. "Well her Boggart was--" and then he closed his mouth, suddenly unsure.

"What?"

"Erm." Harry cleared his throat. "Her Boggart was Voldemort." Draco's face went blank and Harry hurried on.

"He appeared and half the class screamed. Lydia, erm, didn't make him go away or change into anything, she just flicked her wand, said _Riddikulus,_ and all of a sudden, there he was, not changed in any way at all... singing 'I'm a Little Teapot'."

Draco's mouth fell open. "She didn't."

Memory-Harry nodded. "Short and stout," he said, smiling as Draco started to laugh. "Had the hand on the hip, tipping forward motion, the whole thing. I thought the other kids were going to piss themselves."

Harry shook himself, annoyed that he had lingered so long. He had to get out of here. But it looked so genuine, so much like two friends chatting, exchanging funny stories, having a pleasant time together... He lifted his glasses and rubbed his eyes. God, he was so tired. All he wanted was to get out of this bloody place, out of Draco Bloody Malfoy's memories, and go to his room. Sleep. Try to forget this entire day.

He walked to the door, but couldn't help glancing back one more time. Memory-Harry had stood up, walked around the table, and now had one hand on Draco's shoulder as he leaned forward, illustrating a Quidditch formation with peanuts on the table. His attention was focused entirely on proper arrangement of his miniature Quidditch team, but Draco was so stiff he appeared almost frozen--he obviously wasn't comfortable with Harry's proximity. And why should that hurt now, after everything he'd learned?

Taking a deep breath, he turned back to the door. Focusing on his goal as he stepped through the door wasn't working. But then--it hadn't worked before, when he'd been attempting to find Draco's memory, either. What had worked then was...not thinking about his intended goal at all. Closing his eyes, he kept his mind carefully blank, and stepped through the door.

Sighing, he opened his eyes, knowing even before he did so that it hadn't worked.

He was in Draco's workroom. Harry hadn't been in here much. Draco always seemed to want to work alone.

Draco was by himself now, three thick books spread open on the worktable in front of him. Leaning over them, he frowned in intense concentration as he traced the lines on one page, then turned to another of the books and studied it in turn. Finally, he picked up the third book and carried it with him to another workbench, on which two cauldrons were brewing.

Stepping closer, Harry peered into the cauldron on the left, immediately recognizing the golden potion from Slughorn's syllabus.

"Right then," Draco whispered, setting the book beside the cauldron. Picking up a long spoon in one hand and a small bottle of liquid in another, he began adding the liquid, one careful drop at a time, and stirring in a complicated, sweeping pattern that seemed to be in time with the drops. His brow was furrowed, and Harry saw beads of sweat along his hairline.

Finally, he set aside the bottle and spoon, stepped back, and stared at the surface of the potion as if the fate of the world was hanging in the balance.

Draco had mentioned more than once the importance of brewing this potion correctly, as it took six months and he only had one shot at it this year, but until now, Harry hadn't realized the amount of strain he had been under.

"That's what you get when you take a job you're not qualified for," Harry muttered, and Draco glanced in Harry's direction, frowning. Shit. Harry froze, and Draco turned back, biting his lip and watching the potion intently. A moment later, golden drops began leaping up and dancing over the surface of the liquid, and Draco broke out in a wide, relieved grin.

"Brilliant!" he shouted. "Brilliant!"

Harry jerked, startled, and then was suddenly reminded of Draco, whooping and hollering in celebration after repairing the vanishing cabinet.

Draco didn't seem to feel the need to keep shouting this time, though. He simply stood there, continuing to smile, watching the golden drops leap above the cauldron.

So he'd done it. It must be March, then. He remembered how happy Draco had been when they'd gone out to celebrate that night, how—

But all of that had been fake, he reminded himself angrily. Draco's relief and happiness might have been genuine, but his reasons for sharing them with Harry had not been. Well, this was stupid. Harry didn't know why he'd stood around watching so long in the first place. He turned toward the door, but froze when Draco began speaking again.

"Right, you're next."

Curious despite himself, Harry stayed and watched. Draco was approaching the second cauldron, his movements and expression far more confident this time. Compared to Felix Felicis, this potion was, apparently, a piece of cake.

Draco added a single ingredient to the cauldron, and within seconds, steam began rising in spirals. Right, Slughorn had introduced these potions in the same class. Draco smiled again, a smug, self-satisfied grin, leaned forward, inhaled deeply— and suddenly stiffened. His smile vanished, and he just stood there for a moment, staring down at the cauldron. Had Draco got it wrong after all?

Apparently not, because a moment later, he closed his eyes and leaned forward again, breathing deeply, and although his expression was odd—a little bitter, a little sad—he was clearly savoring the scent rising from the cauldron.

What could he be smelling? Something from childhood, perhaps, long-since gone?

Harry had no interest in smelling the potion himself. He suspected, if he were to step closer, he would still smell treacle tart and broomstick handles. But that flowery perfume, he was certain, would no longer be there, and he didn't want to know what he might smell instead. Even after all he'd learned today.

And he'd stayed here staring at Draco far too long, he thought, disgusted with himself. Though he was at a complete loss as to what to do now. Frustrated, he kicked the wall by the door.

"What's that?" said Draco, sounding startled. Fuck.

He stepped through the doorway, quickly, and as he did so, he couldn't help feeling curious what memory he would see next. All the other memories had seemed connected somehow, but he was at a loss as to what might have tied the potions memory with the pub scene before it.

He found himself outside. Brilliant blue sky, a brisk wind, probably early spring, and he drew in his breath, seeing Draco again, and himself, side by side on the Quidditch Pitch.

And that made sense. They had been talking about Quidditch in the pub. Draco, he reasoned, must smell broomstick handles in Amortentia too.

Yes, he saw, stepping closer. They were both holding broomsticks, chatting animatedly, and looking at players up in the air.

"... not bad as a Chaser. Too bad he wants to be a Beater instead," Draco was saying.

"Well he's certainly built like a Beater," said memory-Harry, and Harry glanced up at the sky. No doubt they were talking about Goonley. Yeah, there he was. "Massive arms, no neck. He's just not bright enough to know when and how to hit the Bludgers."

"He's dismal, is what he is," said Draco. But Draco...wasn't actually looking at Goonely at all. His attention was focused on Harry's upturned face, and his expression was almost...warm. Heated, even. And was Harry imagining things, or was Draco looking at Harry's mouth? Could he possibly...?

"Reminds me of my cousin Dudley a little too much," memory-Harry muttered.

"Why's that?" asked Draco, turning to look at Goonley, and the moment, if there had even been a moment, was over.

And it didn't matter. It didn't matter that Harry might have missed a moment with Draco, because even if he had noticed, even if something might possibly have happened between them, none of it, he reminded himself angrily, would have been real.

Harry turned, looking for a door. Where could he find a door, here in an outdoor memory? It was just impossible--

Ah. The Quidditch lockers. That would do.

He headed for the lockers, then stood there, staring at yet another door. This wasn't working. He couldn't just keep wandering through memory after--but wait. The memories had all been progressing in chronological order, hadn't they? Surely, once he caught up to the present, that would do it. He was already only a couple of months in the past.

Grasping the handle, he opened the door and stepped through, only to find himself in...the Prefect's bathroom.

He stopped short, his throat going dry. This memory was not next. Because there was Draco, removing a Slytherin Quidditch uniform, and he was...

Oh. Harry suddenly felt ridiculously light-headed, and appalled at himself, because he suspected his thoughts must have played a role in the selection of this memory. He'd been thinking about Draco and Quidditch lockers; thoughts of Draco and nudity wouldn't be far behind. Which was unbelievably stupid, considering how he felt about Draco as a person right now. And considering the fact that this wasn't adult Draco. Oh god, this was definitely a younger Draco, and Harry suddenly felt like a dirty old man, leching over what he could now clearly see was a teenage boy, no older than fifteen or sixteen, showing the promise of the later adult muscles that had captivated Harry so much even when he'd told himself that--

No, not fifteen, he realized as Draco stepped into the tub and turned around, facing Harry. Sixteen at least. Because there were the scars from Sectumsempra, angry and red.

Well. That dealt with inappropriate lust better than a Bludger to the groin. Harry backed out the door.

But fuck, no, he was doomed, because here he was now in another steamy room, and there was Draco, in the shower, naked and wet, running his hands along his body as he cleaned himself.

He looked older, here. In fact, Harry realized, with a surprisingly intense jolt of arousal, this memory must be from sometime in the last year, since this was obviously a teacher's bathroom.

But where were Draco's scars? He still had them, Harry knew, from one memorable occasion when, short on time, they'd both made use of the changing rooms after coaching Quidditch practice.

He shouldn't watch, he knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't drag his eyes away. It was so much harder to restrain himself, knowing this was _his_ Draco, already more than half hard, and oh god, now he was wanking.

As he watched the signs of Draco's increasing arousal, his rapid breathing and his fluttering eyelids, the swollen head of his cock and the motion of his fist, Harry thought he had never been so painfully hard in his life.

He turned to the doorway, knowing he needed to force himself to walk through it, when someone else walked through it instead.

Snape. _Snape_. Had walked into the room.

Mind frantically spinning, Harry tried to place the memory...it couldn't be this year, that was impossible, so it would—have to be seventh year, wouldn't it? Draco didn't look that young, but when else could it possibly have been?

Snape, the fucking _perv_, was just standing there watching Draco, who hadn't opened his eyes or noticed Snape's presence yet.

"Just what do you think you are doing in here?" Snape said.

Harry expected Draco to be startled, horrified, but instead Draco slowly opened his eyes. His hand stilled on his cock, and he smirked--actually _smirked_--at Snape before letting go and crossing his arms over his chest. "What does it look like?"

"You shouldn't be here," Snape finally said.

"I needed your help," Draco said. "My Dark Mark. It hurts."

"Then I will attend to you. Once you are clothed."

"Clothes just get in the way," said Draco, extending his left arm.

Snape stood for a moment, staring at Draco, an unreadable expression on his face, before sighing and beginning to remove his robes.

"He didn't mean _your_ clothes," Harry muttered, outraged. Snape paused, frowning, and glancing briefly in Harry's direction.

Harry watched, silent and utterly horrified, as Snape stripped down to his undergarments, then removed those as well. He was already erect, just as hard as Draco. And Harry. And the most horrifying thing about it was...that it wasn't horrifying. How could Snape possibly be that fit under his robes?

Snape approached Draco slowly and took hold of his arm. Gently, almost lovingly, he traced his fingers over Draco's forearm. "It doesn't appear inflamed, or sore. Are you sure you require my assistance?"

"Yes," Draco said softly. "I need you."

Gripping Draco's wrist more firmly, and grabbing hold of his hip with the other hand, Snape pushed Draco back, further into the shower, so they were both standing under the spray. "Is this what you wanted, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco swallowed and nodded, shifting so his erect cock brushed against Snape's hip. "Draco...call me Draco."

"Tell me, Draco. What do you want?"

"Fuck me," Draco whispered.

This couldn't possibly be happening, Harry thought. It couldn't possibly have _ever_ happened. It didn't make sense. But there they were, Draco and Snape, right in front of Harry's eyes. Snape had reached for a bottle of lube—who kept _lube_ in the _shower_, for fuck's sake—and he had now turned Draco around, was massaging him, preparing him, and fuck, Harry shouldn't be watching this. But he couldn't look away.

Draco closed his eyes, and moaned, leaning his head back against Snape's chest.

Harry seethed with arousal, and anger, and, yes, jealousy. This memory, if he was willing to admit it to himself, was far too similar to fantasies he'd had of himself and Draco sharing a shower together. That Draco had actually done something like this—and with _Snape_ of all people—was infuriating. This should never have happened. It should have been Harry in the shower with Draco.

Suddenly, Draco's eyes snapped open, and he was staring straight at Harry. Alarm jolting through him, Harry realized his cloak had slipped—no, vanished. It was gone entirely.

"Potter," Draco said, then moaned as Snape thrust into him for the first time. "Potter. Come here."

"No," Harry said, horrified. He needed to leave, now. But his feet wouldn't move. He tried to will his cloak back into existence, but he couldn't focus on anything but Draco, his bobbing, erect cock, and his half-lidded eyes.

"Mr. Potter," Snape hissed. He had halted his movements and was now staring at Harry. "Does your stupidity know no bounds? I should report you to the Dark Lord right now."

"No," Draco said quickly. "No, don't turn him in. Come here, Potter. I want to fuck you."

"No," Harry said again, but when he looked down, his clothes had disappeared, and a second later he was under the spray of the shower, and Draco was smooth and slick and firm against his skin.

"Harry," Draco whispered, and kissed him.

Harry groaned and slipped his hands into Draco's dripping, wet hair, gripping it tightly, as he explored Draco's mouth like he'd wanted to do for so long.

But no, this wasn't real; Draco didn't want him, and Harry was stupid to want Draco, and he shouldn't be _doing_ this.

"Potter," said Snape. "You shouldn't be doing this."

Harry pulled out of the kiss to see Snape, stern and forbidding, staring at him from over Draco's shoulder, and how could he look like that when he was still--

"Harry," said Draco, beginning to rock his hips, pressing his erection against Harry's. "I want you. I need you."

Draco attempted to pull Harry into another kiss, and Harry shook his head, frustrated, even as he felt the arousal spiraling within him. "I shouldn't..." said Harry. "I can't."

Draco tucked his head down against Harry's shoulder, breath coming in sharp bursts as the water poured down over them.

"Harry," Draco panted, "I'm going to come."

"Oh, god," groaned Harry, surrendering, grabbing Draco and pulling him into another fierce kiss. Draco gripped him tightly, whining into Harry's mouth, and then, movements becoming sharp and uneven, he came, pulsing between their bodies.

Harry was close, so close, but he needed more, and even after he'd come, Draco continued pressing himself rhythmically against Harry. His movements grew harder, more forceful, and a strange thrill ran through Harry when he realized it was Snape, who had resumed thrusting into Draco and was pressing him against Harry.

And then Snape reached forward, grabbed a fistful of Harry's hair.

"Fuck," said Harry, pulling out of the kiss and staring into Snape's eyes.

"Potter," said Snape, as Harry's orgasm burst through him. "What are you doing? Potter!"


	3. Chapter 3

"Potter! What have you done?"

Harry's eyes snapped open. He had collapsed backward onto the floor, his body still trembling with aftershocks. Shifting, he winced at the feel of the slippery fabric against his still-hard, oversensitive cock. He glanced up at Snape then immediately flinched away again, sharply reminded of--god, no, he couldn't think about it--and the expression on his face now was so different, so intensely furious. God. And he deserved it, too. How could he ever look at Snape again, or Draco, or himself--

"Answer me, Potter!"

"I couldn't find my way out," he finally mumbled.

"And you thought the best way out was to have an _orgasm_? You would have _known_ how to withdraw if you would have allowed me to finish explaining--"

"I would have allowed you to finish explaining if you had actually bothered to _explain_ rather than insult--"

"Your excuses are pathetic," Snape spat out, and only now did Harry realize how much respect Snape must have had for him at the end of the war--respect that was now lost, because now, _now_ there were new levels of loathing and disgust that Harry had never heard in Snape's voice before. "I should have known better than to trust you not to violate someone like this, invade the sanctity of their most private thoughts and experiences just to satisfy your curiosity...or your lust."

Harry felt sick to his stomach.

"Which memory did you mutilate?"

Harry had a flash of memory. Snape, caressing Draco's arm, with far gentler a touch than Harry had ever imagined the man capable of. Draco gazing up at him--_Yes.__ I need you_--and then closing his eyes as he relaxed against Snape's chest.

Had Snape and Draco really been lovers? Had Harry destroyed a treasured memory?

"Do you have any idea what sort of damage you may have done?"

Harry's gaze snapped to Draco. "Is he all right? Why hasn't he woken up?"

"The potion hasn't worn off yet. He should be waking up on his own any minute now. If you had just waited, rather than taking it upon yourself to blunder into and violate his memories, you would have easily found your way out at that time." Harry miserably remembered the dining room he could have chosen to remain in rather than exploring further in Draco's mind.

And Snape hadn't answered the first half of his question, Harry realized sickly.

Their attention shifted immediately to Draco as he groaned, sitting up straighter and blinking his eyes.

"Draco? Are you all right?" Harry asked.

"Harry..." Draco said, then looked around the room, taking in the reminders of their late night--the tray from the kitchens with half-eaten sandwiches on one table, the cauldron and scattered ingredients on the the other. He flushed slightly and looked back at Harry, appearing chagrined. "I'm--"

"Draco," said Snape sharply. "You can...converse with Potter later. Please come here. I need to speak with you."

After a moment of hesitation, Draco approached Snape's portrait. Harry briefly considered following, but Snape warned him off with one malevolent look, and he stepped into the corner instead. He felt dirty in a way he never had before, as he cast a surreptitious cleaning charm.

Harry stared at the floor for a moment, hands trembling, then turned to Draco and Snape, who were speaking quietly. He couldn't hear what they were saying and didn't know if he would have been able to follow the conversation even if he had. He was too preoccupied with memories of what he had just experienced--he could still _feel_ Draco coming against him, groaning into his mouth, and had to remind himself that none of it had really happened. And Draco, he realized, didn't know what Harry had done--not yet. At some point, though, he would think back, realize that Harry had no place whatsoever in that memory, and then. Then he would despise Harry. How could he not?

He wanted to leave, but he couldn't, not without knowing. "Is he all right?" Harry finally asked.

Snape's head snapped up, eyes narrowing as his gaze focused on Harry. Draco turned toward Harry too, and took a step forward. "I'm--"

Snape hurried to cut him off. "Draco is not suffering from any side-effects from the potion, and his memories of the last four years appear to be fully intact."

"Right, well that's. That's good," said Harry. "I suppose we should get to bed then. It's late." He gestured half-heartedly at the clock on the wall, already moving toward the door.

"Harry, wait--"

Draco's expression was one of concern and confusion. Harry turned away.

"I'll see you tomorrow. Good night."

**ooo000ooo**

Harry smoothed out his robes and ran one hand through his hair in a likely useless attempt to put it in better order before stepping into the Great Hall. He'd overslept and was late for breakfast. There were only two empty spaces at the staff table: one beside Draco—Harry's usual spot before today—and one between Flitwick and Trelawney.

Draco's eyes were already upon him.

_Draco, eyes dark, water running down him in rivulets. Snape behind him, staring right at Harry. Draco pulling him closer, Draco's mouth on his, the rush of water, the heat--_

Harry quickly looked away, but couldn't help glancing at him once more as he seated himself at the other end of the table. Draco was staring forward, fist clenched beside a largely untouched plate of food.

Harry forced himself to look away, nodded to Flitwick and McGonagall, who were conversing on his right, then turned to find Trelawney blinking at him through her thick glasses.

"Hello, Harry. I'm surprised to see you sitting here."

"Surprised? You?"

"Yes, don't you normally sit..." She paused, narrowing her eyes.

"Yes?" Harry prompted.

"You normally sit over there, don't you?" she said, gesturing toward the other end of the table. "With Professor Malfoy?"

Harry looked at Draco again—couldn't help himself. His shoulders still appeared tight, perhaps, but all other signs of distress were already gone. He was conversing with Professor Sinistra, a piece of toast in one hand.

"I'm surprised you noticed," he finally said, turning back to Trelawney. He was, too. Trelawney was seen more frequently at the staff table these days, but she usually seemed just as dreamy and oblivious as she always had.

"Just because I maintain focus on higher matters does not mean I never take note of my surroundings."

"I thought your surroundings...err...clouded your Inner Eye?

"They can..." she said shiftily, "but sometimes one must pay attention to the mundane in order to find an Object to focus one's Sight upon. It is more difficult, these days, to find a good Object."

Ah. That explained her more frequent appearances at the staff table these days. Times were more peaceful than they had been in years, no disasters were looming. There must be very little to prophesize doom and gloom about.

Professor Sinistra laughed, presumably at something Draco had said, and Harry gripped his glass of pumpkin juice more tightly.

"You used to make such a wonderful Object," Trelawney continued. She sighed regretfully, then blinked and looked at him more closely. "You do seem...tense, though, Harry. Anxious. And those dark circles under your...you look like you've hardly rested at all." She sat up straighter, beads rattling, a hopeful glint in her eyes. "Are you having prophetic dreams? Did you want to discuss them with me?"

"Prophetic...dreams?" Harry felt his face flushing. There was _no way_ he was discussing last night's dreams with Trelawney. "Er, no, I was just...up late. Helping Draco. With something."

Trelawney sighed, leaned back in her chair, and took a sip of tea.

"It might have come as a surprise to _some_," she finally said, with pointed emphasis, "but I always predicted you two would be very close."

He almost laughed, despite everything, but then he remembered that even if he _hadn't_ already destroyed their friendship, Draco's interest had never been genuine—he'd had an agenda—and the momentary amusement withered in his chest. Trelawney's "prediction," he reflected, with a bitter glance at Draco, really was as unfounded as it would have seemed in years past.

Draco glanced over, caught Harry looking at him, and stilled. Then he stood, a determined expression on his face, and walked purposefully toward Harry.

"—because you would _think_, after four years, the school could afford to replace them," Trelawney was saying. "They may not all have sustained _visible_ damage, but once a crystal ball has been used in _battle_, the vibrations—"

"Er...sorry," Harry said, standing abruptly. "I've just remembered, I—need to be at class early today."

He strode toward the doors, glancing back once. Draco was standing near the middle of the table, an unreadable expression on his face.

**ooo000ooo**

The last student exited the classroom, and Harry slumped back in his chair, his eyes already trying to fall closed. God, he needed to sleep. He'd certainly got little enough last night, and what sleep he had managed had hardly been restful. As exhausted as he was, he felt his cock twitch at the memory of those dreams.

_I want you. I need you._

Clenching his teeth in frustration, he pushed the unwelcome thoughts from his mind. He was _not_ going to think about Draco. If he could just get back to his rooms, get a good night's rest, then he could figure out how to deal with this—what to say to Draco—tomorrow.

He stood up from his desk, plans decided on--forget dinner, he was going straight to bed—when the door to his classroom opened. Harry looked up, hoping it was a student who'd forgotten a book, or perhaps a member of the Quidditch team wanting to ask about the cancelled practice, anyone but—exactly who it was. Draco, standing there in the doorway, staring at him.

"Hello, Draco," Harry finally said.

Draco had seemed frozen, but those words pushed him into motion. He entered the room—shutting the door firmly behind him, Harry noted uncomfortably—and crossed the room with quick strides. He seemed tense, angry, and suddenly, Harry was filled with the horrified certainty that Draco remembered, that he was here to confront Harry over what had happened last night, and Harry was so far from ready for that conversation...

Draco stopped a couple feet from Harry. For a moment, neither of them said anything, and then they both spoke at once.

"How are you—"

"I noticed you skipped lunch."

Harry quickly realized that Draco had no intention of answering Harry's aborted question. "Er, yeah, I got busy. Had the house-elves bring me something."

"I spoke with Snape again today," Draco said. "At least he was willing to talk to me about what happened."

If he'd had suspicions before, this confirmed them. Snape might have waited until today to tell him, in order for Draco to get some necessary rest, but there was no way Snape would lie, even by omission, to protect Harry from the consequences of his actions. If Draco had spoken to Snape today, then he knew.

There was nothing for it. They were going to have this conversation now. He looked up into Draco's accusatory eyes.

"I know you're angry at me, and you have every right to be."

Astonishingly, this seemed to quell Draco's anger. He looked down, and a slight flush appeared on his cheeks. "Look... No, I—I mean, all right, maybe I was a little upset that you were avoiding me, but it would be understandable. If you were upset at me."

Harry thought about the things he had learned, about Draco's goals and his false pretenses, and felt more tension creep into his body. "It would be hard not to be," Harry finally said, and Draco winced. "But that doesn't justify my behavior. Draco, I—I'm sorry."

Draco stared down at the floor, and when he spoke, his voice was difficult to read. "What you did, it was really incredible. I don't know anyone else who would have done that."

Now it was Harry's turn to wince. "Draco, I—"

"I'll understand if you're not in the mood, or too tired, to spend another night with me, but--"

What?

"I really need to--to finish what I started last night. You know." He glanced toward the door, as if afraid someone would overhear, even though the room was empty.

_Come here, Potter. I want to fuck you._ Harry gasped sharply at the memory. He could _feel_ Draco, slick and wet against his skin.

"What?" Harry finally managed, and Draco frowned.

"Like I said, I talked to Snape. He thought it would be a good idea to have a third person—"

Harry gaped at him, and Draco looked confused, and then chagrined. "Or, a second person, I suppose. He's a portrait, so I know he can't really participate, other than offering advice. But I promise, you wouldn't have to do much. I'd do all of the work."

Harry's mouth continued to hang open, all powers of speech momentarily lost to him. Draco stood patiently, apparently waiting for an answer.

"You're saying that you—and Snape—are okay with what happened last night because I fulfilled one of Snape's _fantasies_?"

"What? Why on earth would he fantasize about that?" Draco asked, giving Harry an odd look. "No, it's just safer. In case there's an accident."

"Just what sort of accident are you expecting you might have?" Harry asked, horrified.

"Well I'm not _planning_ on having an accident. Look, I know things got a little messy last night," Draco said, grimacing, "but I promise, I'll be very careful. Besides, I'll have Snape to direct me, every step of the way."

Harry shuddered. "Look, Draco, I'm sorry if you've got the wrong impression, after what happened last night, but I really have no interest whatsoever in Snape giving you _directions_ while you fuck me."

Draco's eyes grew wider than Harry had ever seen them.

"What did you just say?" he asked, his voice going uneven at the end.

"That's what you said last night," said Harry, growing more uncertain and uncomfortable with every passing moment. "In the shower. That you wanted to fuck me."

Draco stared at him, then suddenly stiffened, inhaled sharply, and closed his eyes. "Oh my god," he said, as a wash of color flooded his cheeks. When he opened his eyes again, they were impossibly dark, and he was staring at Harry as if he had never seen him before. "Oh my god," he said again.

"You didn't remember until now, did you?" Harry said, feeling both horrified and incredibly stupid.

Staring at him, Draco shook his head.

Harry didn't know what to say. "Look," he fumbled, "I'm—I'm sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I don't understand what I was thinking."

A frown began to form out of the momentarily blank expression Draco had been wearing.

"I don't think there's anything else I can say. Or do. I should probably just...go now. I promise I'll never do...anything like that again. Not that I could. But you know. I wouldn't." Draco was still staring at him. Harry turned to leave.

Draco grabbed his wrist.

"Wait. Harry," Draco said, voice tight. "What if I do want it to happen again?"

Shivers shot along Harry's arm, up and down his spine, and his cock grew impossibly hard. Draco was gripping his arm, wanted to _fuck_ him, wanted—to use him. Suddenly as angry as he had been last night, watching Draco pinch the bridge of his nose and agree to his mother's plans, Harry jerked his arm away.

"No thanks," he said, stalking to the door.

"Harry," Draco said, in a strangled voice, and Harry turned back to face him. Draco's posture was stiff, and his expression apologetic.

"Look, I'm sorry. If you're not interested, just say so. You don't have to—I thought we were friends."

Harry glared at him. "But we were never friends, were we Draco?"

Draco's mouth fell open. Harry turned sharply and left the room.

**ooo000ooo**

"Professor Potter? Did you hear me?"

"What?" Harry glanced around the emptying classroom and blinked at the student standing in front of him. "Oh, sorry, Lydia, I was just—" too busy fantasizing about fucking another teacher to pay attention to anything my student was saying. He winced. "A little distracted."

Uncomfortable, he began gathering the essays scattered on his desk.

"That's all right. I just wanted to know if Professor Malfoy will be back in time for practice tonight."

"Back?" Harry looked up sharply. "I didn't know he was gone."

"We had a substitute in Potions today. Professor Longbottom. He's terrible at Potions, did you know? But he was the only one who was free. Apparently they _tried_ to get a portrait from down in the dungeons to do it, but he—"

"Why is he gone? Did they say?"

"No, just that he wasn't here today. I hope he's back soon. You know how I feel about Potions, but ever since he started teaching it, it hasn't been so bad. We missed him today." She slung her bag over one shoulder and tilted her head at him. "Is something wrong?"

"No...nothing's wrong. I'll see you at practice, Lydia, all right?"

"All right. Do you think they'll get that portrait to substitute for him tonight if he's not back?" she said, laughing.

Harry suddenly had a vivid and startling image of Snape's portrait balanced on a broomstick. "Erm, no. No, I don't think so."

"Too bad," she said, turning away. "_That_ would have been interesting."

"Oh, and Lydia?" he called after her before she left the room.

"Yes?"

"Behave yourself between now and then, will you?"

Her answering grin was far from reassuring, and he hoped she had no plans for making tonight's Quidditch practice more "interesting" herself, especially considering that he'd likely be handling it on his own.

Fuck, where was Draco?

Harry was in no hurry to see him, not after last night, but...damn it, this was such a mess.

And why was he gone today? Snape would know. Not that Harry had any intention of visiting him. He'd either rip Harry a new one, or worse, proposition him. Harry couldn't help shuddering again at the idea of Snape directing him during sex.

Except, wait, that hadn't been what Draco had been talking about, had it? Harry had been rather understandably derailed by the direction the conversation had taken, but what the hell _had_ Draco meant about needing a third person?

_I need to finish what I started last night._

_He thought it would be a good idea to have a third person._

_In case there's an accident._

Bloody hell. Draco had attempted that potion again last night, and Harry hadn't been there.

Several possibilities occurred to him, each more unpleasant than the last. Draco had been caught using illegal ingredients and got himself sacked. Draco had had another accident and landed himself in St. Mungos. Draco had—

Standing up so quickly that his chair fell over behind him, Harry grabbed up his papers and hurried to the dungeons.

**ooo000ooo**

Snape was reading a book, and Harry wondered where he had got it. There hadn't been any painted into his portrait. When Snape heard Harry step into the room, he closed the book with a snap, and the look he directed at Harry was glacial. Harry crossed his arms and forced himself to stare back.

"Where's Draco?"

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here now, Potter. Where were you last night?"

"I was in my rooms, asleep. I was tired. I'd had a long day."

Snape sneered. "Too tired to help a friend who might very well have ended up—"

The band of worry he'd been doing his best to ignore tightened further around his chest. "Is he all right?"

"What was that you said the other night, Potter? You care more about him than I do? Well, we all know what form that 'caring' takes now, don't we?"

"Where _is_ he?" Harry shouted.

Snape stared at him coolly, and Harry forced himself to relax his clenched fists. He wasn't going to get anything out of Snape by yelling at him.

"Why so interested now? Where was this heartfelt concern last night, when it might have done some good?"

Harry flushed. "Look, I didn't—I didn't know. He told me, but I misunderstood."

"How could you have possibly —"

"That's not important," Harry said quickly. "Look. Just tell me if he's all right."

"He's all right," Snape said slowly, enunciating each word, and the band around Harry's chest loosened. "No thanks to you."

"Where is he? When will he be back?"

"If he didn't tell you, I certainly have no call to."

"He _should_ have told me," Harry said, anger creeping back into his voice. "We have Quidditch practice tonight. It's common courtesy—"

"You have no business talking about _courtesy_ after what you did to him."

"And you have no business lecturing me after what _you_ did to him."

Snape blinked. "To what are you referring?"

"You had _sex_ with him! When he was a student!"

Snape's face went temporarily blank. "I did what?"

"Don't try to play stupid—I know what I saw!"

Harry had never seen Snape look so flustered. It would have been funny, under any other circumstances. "Whatever you saw, I can assure you Potter, I have never—"

Snape stopped.

"You saw a fantasy."

"I—what?"

"People remember what they fantasize about, just as they remember anything else. You saw a fantasy, Potter..."

They stared at each other.

"And you," Snape said slowly, "participated." Snape's expression turned complex--incredulous, disgusted...intrigued? God, no.

Harry stared down at the floor, cheeks flaming hotly. "Shut up."

"Tell me, Potter," Snape said finally. "Was it good for you?"

"God, shut the _fuck_ up!"

"And here I always thought you didn't like me."

Without another word, Harry turned sharply and strode toward the door.

"It's you that he wants, you know,"

Harry froze in the doorway. "What?"

"You heard what I said."

"What he _wants_," Harry said angrily, "is Harry Potter twisted around his finger."

"Don't tell me you wouldn't be interested. We've already established you're far more sexually adventurous than anyone had previously given you credit for." Snape paused. "With the possible exception of Rita Skeeter. Didn't she write an article once--"

"Don't fuck with me, Snape."

"I thought I already had."

Disgusted, Harry turned again to leave.

"You're making a mistake."

Harry stood, gripping the doorjamb tightly. "The only mistake I made was in thinking I could believe even one word that came out of his mouth. You can say what you like, but I saw them. Draco and his mother, planning it all out. How he was going to use me. He never wanted to be my friend."

"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my life. Draco Malfoy has wanted to be your friend since he was eleven years old. Probably earlier than that."

Harry stared at him.

"Potter," said Snape, in the same tone of long-suffering patience and pitying resignation he had finally resorted to during their potion brewing. "Whatever Draco's intentions when he started teaching here this year, it has been disgustingly obvious for quite some time that his feelings—" Snape's lip curled slightly "—were soon quite genuine."

Harry's mind spun, revisiting teasing looks and friendly touches, clever smiles and familiar conversation.

He wanted it to be true.

What he couldn't understand was why _Snape_ would want it to be true. Or want Harry to think it was true, either one.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Snape crossed his arms. "I've rarely seen him so upset. More significantly, I've never seen him make so many stupid mistakes in such a short period of time. He almost killed himself putting that potion together last night. Whatever you've done, Potter, I want you to _fix_ it. Tonight."

**ooo000ooo**

Harry stood in front of the door to Draco's rooms, uncertain what to do next. Draco hadn't shown up for Quidditch practice tonight, the bastard, and he wasn't here. Or if he was, he wasn't answering his door.

Was he even back at Hogwarts yet?

Harry had come straight here after Quidditch practice, rather than returning to his rooms, and now he felt stupid for having done so. Had he returned to his rooms, he could have had a look at his map—and wouldn't the Marauders have shuddered to know it was in a teacher's hands; they'd have rather someone like Lydia have it—or he could have just said fuck it to the whole thing and taken a shower; he needed one. Either would have been a better choice than this.

"Well, fuck it," Harry said to the closed door, then and there making his decision: a shower and perhaps some Firewhisky would feature largely in his evening; maps and Potions professors who couldn't be trusted and didn't want to be found anyway, not at all.

He turned, glad to have _something_ settled, only to find that his decision had somehow unmade itself in the intervening seconds. Once again he wasn't certain about anything--except that Draco was standing in the hallway, about twenty feet away, staring at him.

Harry had the impression Draco would have turned and walked in the opposite direction, if only Harry hadn't been blocking the path to his room.

"Are you lost, Potter?" he finally spat out.

"Were you? Where have you been?"

"None of your business."

Harry intended to say something about Quidditch practices and common courtesy, but Draco, having apparently made some decision of his own, began walking toward him purposefully, and Harry lost his train of thought.

"In fact, it's _never_ been your business, has it, Potter? Seeing as we've never been friends."

"Look, I—might have been wrong about that," Harry said, once Draco was within touching distance. He didn't touch him.

"No, I don't think you were." Draco reached for the door, tense and angry, not touching Harry or looking at him either. He obviously intended to end the conversation there, and Harry had half a mind to let him, but then his arm shot out, blocking Draco's path.

They stood for a long moment, Draco's chest pressed tightly against Harry's arm. Through that single point of contact, Harry could feel Draco's tension, his rapid heartbeat, his deep, shuddering breaths.

"We need to talk," Harry said. Draco seemed, impossibly, to grow even tenser.

"Five minutes," he said, still not looking at Harry. Harry withdrew his arm and followed Draco into the room.

Draco removed his cloak and threw it on the couch where he usually sat, then stalked over to the fireplace and stood there stiffly. Harry remained where he was, a few feet into the room.

"Where were you tonight?"

"I gave the potion to my mother. I needed to stay with her to ensure there were no side effects."

"Did it go well?"

"It did." No thanks to you, Harry could hear him silently adding.

"I didn't understand what you were asking last night. If—"

"It doesn't matter. I didn't have any problems."

"You're going to need to stop doing that, you know. If we're really going to be friends."

For the first time in the stilted conversation, Draco met his eyes. "Stop doing what?"

"Lying to me."

Harry couldn't tell if Draco looked guilty or confused.

"What have I lied to you about?"

"I saw a conversation, between you and your mother. I wasn't exactly pleased to hear how...lacking your education at the Lutece academy was."

Draco paled. "I suppose I should pack my things, then." He made an abortive movement, as if he intended to go and do just that, before shaking his head and leaning back against the mantle, staring at Harry bitterly. "I told her it wouldn't work. You wouldn't even—even have to have seen that memory. My abysmal performance the last few days would have been enough to tip you off."

Harry had intended to punish Draco, leave him to worry over the consequences of his deception, but now that he saw the anxiety in Draco's eyes, he found he had zero interest in seeing him suffer.

"I wouldn't...pack your things just yet. I know you're a good teacher."

"What are you talking about? I'm completely unqualified!"

"That memory wasn't the only one I saw. I know how hard you've worked to prepare yourself for this job. You're a thousand times better as a teacher than Snape ever was. And it would be a bit hypocritical of me to get you fired over a technicality. I spent two years as an Auror before taking this job, and if the rules had been applied to me, I wouldn't have even been through my training at the time I retired."

"Yes," said Draco, strained and incredulous. "They do tend to bend the rules for defeaters of Dark Lords. Less often for those who have Dark Marks branded into their arms."

"Snape had a Dark Mark too," said Harry, and Draco stared at him.

He was right to stare, thought Harry. He had intended to rake Draco over the coals, and now he was reassuring him over his suitability for his position?

"Look, don't think you're entirely off the hook, but that's not what I'm really here to talk about." Harry swallowed. "It was...the second half of that conversation that really upset me."

Draco looked confused, then horrified. "Harry..."

"I did think we were friends, Draco," Harry said quietly.

Draco ran a trembling hand through his hair, looking more miserable than Harry had seen him in years. "I suppose you won't believe a word I have to say at this point, but... I said what I did because I didn't think things could ever be different between us. After I was here for a while, I thought... Maybe they could."

_How different_, Harry wanted to ask. But as much as he wanted to, he wasn't sure if he should believe him. Didn't know if he should take that risk.

After waiting for a long moment, Draco seemed to draw the same conclusion.

"Not that it matters," he said bitterly, "now that you've had such a _vivid_ reminder of all the reasons you've never liked me."

But he was wrong. Because right now, Harry couldn't remember even one of them.

"I don't know," Harry finally said. "You were kind of cute."

"Cute?" Draco said, appalled and disbelieving.

Harry nodded.

"I was cute when I wouldn't cooperate with anything you suggested? I was cute when I accused you of trying to murder me? I was cute when you spent hours trying to help me and I couldn't come up with anything better to say than 'you're incompetent and I'm _taller_ than you'?"

"I thought so, yes," said Harry, paying more attention to the flush rising on Draco's cheeks and the shape of his mouth as he spoke than to exactly what Draco was saying. The incredulity hadn't left Draco's face, and neither had the hints of embarrassment that had crept in somewhere along the way, but now his expression had darkened.

"And the conversation I had with my mother? Was that cute as well?"

"Obviously not," Harry said, grimacing. "But I don't suppose it would be fair to hold grudges, considering what—what I did." He felt a rising warmth in his own cheeks but forced himself to look Draco in the eyes.

"That's right." Draco wet his lips. "That was rather...inexcusable of you." And now the flush on his cheeks didn't look so much like embarrassment as it did something else entirely, and his eyes... Harry recognized that expression. A shock of arousal coursed through him when he placed it as the one Draco had worn in the shower, right after Harry's invisibility cloak had disappeared, and right before Draco had--

"That wasn't entirely your fault, though," Draco continued, stepping away from the fireplace and toward Harry. "If my memory can be trusted, I did quite a bit of persuading."

"You were very...persuasive," Harry said, crossing to the middle of the room.

Draco stopped, very close, and placed one hand on Harry's wrist.

Heart pounding in his chest, Harry raised his other hand and ran it through Draco's hair. Draco's eyes fell closed. He gave a gentle tug, pulling Harry onto the couch, then slowly opened his eyes. There was a frozen moment as they just stared at each other, before Draco moved closer and then... it had to be magic, or possibly sleep deprivation, or something, because Harry swore he could hear the spray of the shower, feel the water pouring over them, and then he was conscious of nothing but the distance between their mouths. Both of them were holding their breaths, and then nervously touching their lips together--and Draco did taste like yesterday, like Harry had always imagined he would, but also like... right now.

They drew back warily, then grinned at each other.

Yes, we're really doing this, Harry wanted to say, but settled for pulling Draco closer and turning towards him more fully, their arms encircling each other and then Draco—oh--Draco practically climbed into his lap and had him pressed against the back of the couch, and it felt incredibly ... well, like they were kids snogging in a common room instead of a Professor's sitting room. He suppressed a snicker at the thought, leaning back and just going with it.

And that wasn't difficult at all, because there was Draco's weight shifting in his lap, Draco's hand cradling the back of Harry's head, fingers playing in his hair. His other hand cupping Harry's cheek briefly--Harry shivered at the intimacy of it--before slowly moving down, barely brushing Harry's nipple as it passed, and Harry wasn't sure if the gasp that escaped him was due to the small shock of that, even through his robes, or to the slick perfection of Draco's tongue in his mouth. Draco's lips curved into a smile; then his hand went lower, sneaking under Harry's robes, fingers teasing at the waistband of Harry's trousers, while the grip of his other hand tightened at the back of Harry's head and his kisses grew more demanding.

"Mmm, that's nice..." Draco murmured against Harry's lips. "Why did we take so long to do this again?"

"I didn't even...know if you were gay..." Draco's hand dropped lower, brushed against Harry's erection, and Harry bit back a moan, letting his head fall back against the couch. "I mean... I'd hoped. I wasn't sure..."

"I wasn't sure about you either," Draco said, stroking Harry through his trousers. "Nice of you to clear that up for me the other day."

"I haven't been able to think about anything else. Ever since. It's been... very distracting."

"I've been very distracted as well," Draco said, then licked Harry's ear. Harry shivered, closing his eyes.

"Fuck, Draco, I want you."

Draco gasped sharply, then tugged at Harry's robes. Harry shifted, allowing Draco to pull them up and over his head, then watched as Draco removed his own, and sweet Merlin, Draco didn't wear much under them.

Harry froze, seeing the scars cutting through the smooth, pale skin on Draco's chest. Those hadn't been there in the fantasy. And there was the Dark Mark, now barely visible. He looked up, to see Draco watching, waiting.

Harry drew in his breath, realizing his chest was heaving, and somehow he'd wrapped his arms around Draco and was holding him so close it felt like he was trying to meld them together. Then Harry shifted slightly against the pressure on his lap and cried out without meaning to as the movement brought Draco's hardness against his own. He pulled Draco even closer, claiming his mouth, then broke off again as Draco moved against him.

As they began to thrust against one another, it was somehow Draco's mouth--the small warmth of his tongue, tracing a pattern around and behind and over Harry's ear, the teasing pressure of his teeth gently biting Harry's earlobe, the smooth slide of his lips, making their way down Harry's neck—that stretched Harry's nerves tight, made his heart race faster and faster--it was too much, but it wasn't enough.

Harry gasped, turning, meeting Draco's lips with his for one heated kiss before bringing a hand up and gently tilting Draco's face to the side, exposing the long, graceful line of his neck. He moved his lips up, near Draco's ear, smiling at the helpless moan Draco gave, the way he pressed himself harder against Harry, the way he gasped and worked a hand in between them, faltering at the button of Harry's fly before redoubling his efforts, finally freeing Harry from his trousers.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut as Draco's hand closed around him, and he gave Draco's neck one last open-mouthed kiss before seeking Draco's lips again. Moving a hand down to the waistband of Draco's boxers, he reached in, finally grasping him. Their lips were moving together urgently, matching the rhythm of their hands until there wasn't enough air, and they separated, panting, foreheads resting against each other as they arched into each other and thrust and stroked faster and faster--

And then Draco cried out, something unintelligible that Harry could barely hear over the rush of his own body's response; the warm wetness covering his hand, Draco's cock jerking against his fingers, the unsteadiness of Draco's movements against him, all somehow pushed him that last bit further, and he was coming, not knowing what he was saying, not aware of anything but the euphoria of release and relief and oh, fuck, oh _god._

He drew in a shaking breath, gently drawing his hand out of Draco's boxers, leaning back as Draco did the same. A moment later, Draco picked up his wand and murmured a quick cleaning spell over them both.

Harry slid his arms around Draco, pulling him close again, reveling in the warmth and solidity of Draco's body against his as Draco relaxed against him. This was almost as good as sex itself, he found himself thinking vaguely. The urgency was gone, they were both glowing and relaxed, and there was no energy for anything other than simple touches, simple caresses.

He nuzzled his cheek against Draco's, smiling as Draco turned and took his lips in a long, slow kiss.

He bit gently at Draco's lower lip, and they laughed together. Draco took a deep breath. "Mmm, you smell good."

"I smell sweaty." His hand made smooth, slow movements along Draco's back. "We had Quidditch practice tonight, I'll remind you. Leave me to handle all of them on my own again, and I'll... think of something to get you back." He paused, mind still too hazy and content for clever thoughts to come easily. "Maybe leave you on your own for the next mess your Ravenclaws make."

Draco made a sound of quiet amusement. "Surely that's a little excessive?"

"You wouldn't think so if you knew what Lydia pulled this evening."

Draco chuckled as he slowly shifted off Harry's lap, and Harry tightened his arms without meaning to--and had a half second to feel embarrassed about it--before Draco relaxed against him, no longer straddling his legs but still turned towards him, arms around him loosely, head resting against Harry's shoulder.

"Do I want to know?"

Harry paused, taking a moment to enjoy the new position, and eventually Draco nudged him.

"What? Oh. Lydia decided the Beaters were getting sloppy. Charmed the Bludgers so that each time they actually hit a target, they burst into song and then reproduced themselves."

"Oh Merlin."

"There were sixteen of them by the time we were able to stop the charm. Do you have any idea how painful it is to have to capture sixteen rogue Bludgers?"

"You're right, that's terrible." Draco looked up at him, a teasing expression on his face. "How can I make it up to you?"

Harry drew a hand through Draco's hair. "I think you've already made it up to me." He paused, frowning slightly. "So was this our first time? Or our second?"

"I think our first. Since last time didn't really happen."

Harry found himself tensing, as that thought was a little too close to an uncomfortable one he had been avoiding—that the moment between them in the shower, everything Draco had said and done, had been entirely the product of Harry's mind, imposed on Draco against his will.

Draco seemed to pick up on Harry's uneasiness and cleared his throat hastily. "Not that last time doesn't make a very nice memory. But it was just a fantasy. This...this is real." He smoothed a possessive hand along Harry's chest.

Harry took a moment to process that and then smiled, head dropping tiredly against the back of the couch, and allowed himself to just exist. Enjoy the moment. God, after working with him for how long, watching him for how long, telling himself that this couldn't happen, trying to stop looking at him, stop feeling that swoop in his stomach when Draco smiled at him--this was really happening. And Draco wanted it. Draco had been thinking about him, wondering about him too.

How long had Draco wanted him? And how had he not seen it? And why had it taken Snape, of all people, to get them together?

Snape. Right. They should probably talk about that at some point.

"It does...make a nice memory." Harry finally said. He shivered a bit as Draco started kissing his neck, and was tempted to set it aside, bring it up some other time. He hesitated, then pushed himself. "I could do without the memories of, er, Snape, though."

Draco sighed heavily against Harry's neck. "I was rather hoping we could skip that part of the conversation."

Harry ran a hand slowly up and down Draco's back, waiting.

"In sixth year, I hated him," Draco said quietly. "But in seventh year, everything was different. He looked out for me. I had a bit of a crush on him. Used to think about him, sometimes. You know. In the shower."

"Ever think about him in the Prefect's bathroom?"

"Sometimes," Draco said, lifting his head. "Why?"

"No reason."

Draco sighed. "At least Snape never found out about it."

"Er..."

Draco stiffened. "Potter?"

"He sort of...figured it out. Based on something I said."

Draco sat up, glaring, then closed his eyes and seemed to give it up, slumping back against Harry.

"Merlin, he'll never let me live it down."

"I don't know. He didn't seem to give it much thought. He seemed much more interested in the fact that I, er, participated. In the fantasy."

"That's right, you did," said Draco, brightening. "Well, that's all right, then. He'll be so busy taking the piss out of you, he likely won't even think to mention my part in it."

"Wonderful."

"Don't bother complaining. _You_ don't have to consult with him on a regular basis. I work with him at least once a week."

Harry nodded, happily conceding the point. Snape's scorn didn't really concern him. Not when he had Draco so close, holding him, and it felt so bloody right.

"You know," Draco said, trailing his fingers lazily along one of Harry's arms, "It's almost a shame you didn't explore a little further in my memories. If you'd investigated more recent ones, you'd have found some very different...fantasies."

"Is that so?"

"Oh yes," Draco said, his voice dropping slightly, and Harry sucked in his breath, startled at the tremor that ran through him. God, already?

"In the shower?" he asked, and bit his lip at the flush that spread across Draco's cheeks--except it was kind of charming, actually, and Draco's sheepish expression betrayed no anger.

"Not so much, no," Draco laughed. "Not any more. That was an old one, I think."

"Where are the new ones?" Harry asked, moving his lips near Draco's ear and smiling as he drew in his breath.

"In the Quidditch hutch," he said, a bit breathless, shifting slightly. "While putting away equipment." Draco turned slightly and captured Harry's lips, and Harry wasn't sure whether it was the words or the intensity of the kiss that made his arousal spike so sharply.

"Quidditch hutch?" And now he was the one sounding breathless.

"Mmhmm..." said Draco. "And on this couch."

"Oh." His cock gave a throb and he briefly considered sharing a few of his own fantasies, but Draco didn't seem interested right now.

Which was fine. This reality was better than any fantasy, because reality was that they were moving into each other's arms again, kissing each other deeply, and now Draco was starting to push him onto his back and Harry obliged him, not even minding that the couch was a bit narrower than he preferred for this kind of thing... they'd probably work their way to the bed soon enough, after all...

"I'd almost be willing to take that potion again," Draco murmured between kisses. "That would make for some interesting threesome fantasies, now that I think of it--"

Draco came back to his neck, lips moving gently near his ear and taking another deep breath. Harry turned to kiss him again, then drew back, tilting his head to the side. Draco's expression...

"You don't love the smell of broomsticks, do you?" he asked suddenly.

Draco blinked. "Love it?" He thought for a moment. "Not particularly." He came back to Harry's ear, tracing the outside with his tongue again, drawing a shiver from Harry. "But I love the smell of you. After you've been riding one."

Harry felt his face heating up again, joining the heat of his arousal as well as another, totally unexpected warmth, that spread all the way through him.

He cleared his throat, a bit embarrassed. "I need a shower."

Draco took his hand and tugged him up, off the sofa, and in the direction of the bathroom.

"Come on, Potter. Let's make some new memories."

**ooo000ooo**

A million thanks to our betas, melusinahp, schemingreader, and cestwhat :)


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